The Other Potter Child
by chemqueen
Summary: A mysterious letter appears on Hermione Granger's pillow, and within moments she is drawn into a prophesy that evil doesn't want to come true. Now, the Order realizes that Harry isn't the only child Voldemort wants dead. DISCONTINUED
1. THE MANILLA LETTER

Here is the first chapter of my newest fic. I hope you truly enjoy this, and if you don't you were the one who read it, so don't blame me.

Chapter One: The Manila Letter

There was a small silence before the pure summer air was interrupted by the harsh ringing of an unwanted alarm clock. A slim hand shot out from under the crimson bedspread and hit the snooze. There was a small groan, and a head of smooth dark hair pulled up from the abyss of the red jersey-knit sheets. Groaning, Hermione Granger pushed off the light bedspread and looked around her room.

After almost being killed during her fifteenth year, Hermione had realized that if she wanted to change something she couldn't wait for it to happen. So upon arriving home she had declared to her parents she was tired of pink, and wanted to redecorate her room.

Now the walls were dark blue, with velvet curtains that opened to another, transparent layer of smooth red. The desk across from her bed carried the laptop she had received from her aunt the Christmas before last, and the swivel chair sported a red cushion that Hermione's mother had made. 

There would have been ginger cat hair over everything if Crookshanks had still been around, but Hermione's neighbor had thought it to be tremendously funny to let him loose in the middle of London. The poor cat was hit by a car.

Convinced that nothing had changed during the night, Hermione turned back to her pillow. To her immense surprise, a manila envelope sat serenely on the indented surface. Propping herself up on her elbows, Hermione picked up the package, which was slightly heavy, and opened it.

__

Dearest Hermione,

If you are reading this now, and this is your seventeenth birthday –

Hermione had almost forgotten. Today was her birthday.

__

then we are sadly dead. Your brother will have been returned to my sister Petunia, and you will have been placed with a glamour in the muggle home of a kind family who will have guided you through the first six years of your Hogwarts life. We are sorry that you have never been informed of the truth, and we wish you the happiest of birthdays.

Voldemort has been told of our existence, as we knew he would once discover. You and your brother are of the greatest importance, not just to us, your parents, but to the entire wizarding world. If the Dark Lord learns of your existence then all is lost. But he has not if you are reading this now, so we know that all plans have gone exceedingly well. If you wish for more answers then I am about to give you, please owl Headmaster Dumbledore, and if he is not well, ask them of Professor McGonagall.

Who are you? You are Hermione Elizabeth Potter, daughter of James and Lily Potter, and the younger sister of Harry James Potter. 

Why are you hidden? There was a prophesy that I guess you know of. You bear the strength to give the final protection to your brother, and help him to help the world. We bid you good luck in fulfilling this.

Can you tell anyone of your new identity? By all means, do so. Especially your brother, who we guess will be very surprised. 

The small amulet at the bottom of this envelope is a Celtic protection amulet. It has been passed down through the Evans family for millenniums, and now I bestow it on you, the first Potter to wear it. Give it to your children.

With our love,

Lily and James Potter

The letter dropped from Hermione's still hands. She was a Potter. Very carefully, Hermione picked up the letter and read it again. It mentioned a few things she would have to research. First, however, she was sure she had a book on glamours.

Slipping from her bed, Hermione twisted the bolt at the top of her closet, and picked up the flashlight on the desk. Pushing aside her more formal clothing, Hermione reached the bookshelf at the back of the closet. Her trunk and other wizarding things were to the side, behind her, but all of the books that could be of use to her were positioned at the back. 

Gazing under the appearance section of her shelves, Hermione brushed the tips of her fingers against the bindings, looking for the title. Finally, she found Polyjuices, Glamours and the best Cloaks in the Business. Plucking it from the shelf, Hermione sat on the floor and flipped through the pages to the page entitled in curled script: Glamour.

__

Glamours are when a witch or wizard would like to take on or bestow on another a certain look for a long period of time. Most glamours change hair and eye color, though more advanced glamours can also alter height, sound of voice, figure, skin, abilities as well as hair and eye. 

Hermione was well aware there was more, but for the moment she just wanted to ponder. Lily Potter was one of the best spell-casters in the entire of England. It was no doubt she could cast an advanced glamour. Hermione thrust the book back in placed and turned off the flashlight. 

In her bare feet she raced to the bathroom and flicked the switch. As the marble room flooded with light Hermione watched as the last touches of being a Granger disappeared. She watched herself mold into someone else.

In the time it took her to read about glamours her eyes had turned hazel, a startling hazel with flecks of gold and green whirled in a flickering chestnut. Her hair had lost its bushy quality, and now hung down past her shoulders in thick, rolling waves. The color had remained, but now it turned an ebony color with smudges of a deep red that could only be natural. 

Preoccupied with her hair, Hermione missed the addition of height to her legs and the sudden slimness of her fingers. Her teeth were already straight, and they stayed the same. Her thin lips became slightly more swollen, and a little rosier in color. Her skin had always had a slight tan, and now it became the same pale that she had attributed to Harry's skin tone.

The line about voice filtered through her mind, and Hermione attempted an experiment.

"Hello, Miss Hermione Elizabeth Potter," she spoke. Unfortunately, the only difference seemed that there was a slight smoothness to her words, and they were no longer clipped. Encouraged, Hermione tried again, this time with a different idea.

"Do re mi fa so la ti do," she sang. Her voice remained flat as ever. She shook her head and smiled at her new reflection.

"It seems that singing doesn't come with the territory," Hermione told herself. Even though it didn't come from her singing voice, there was still the gentleness to her words that was new. Shrugging, Hermione turned off the bathroom lights with a strange grace, and returned to her room to change.

The flair jeans and knit tank were on in seconds, and the new hair that she had recently acquired was quickly pulled up into a ponytail. The new bangs Hermione had asked for at the salon the weekend before had not made her old hair look any better, but it worked wonderfully with her new waves. Curved, as they were now, the bangs reached the bottom of her ear lobes, and with her hair parted on the side Hermione decided she looked good, better then usual. 

Her sandals were on in seconds, and Hermione quickly wrote a note to her parents telling then she was going over to the Burrow to see how Harry and Ron were. She grabbed her jean jacket from its place by the front door and paused for a moment to decide how to go to the Burrow. Hermione excluded Floo, and closed her eyes and concentrated. 

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

After revealing to the ministry that Voldemort did truly exist, Dumbledore agreed to let the Weasleys remain at the Burrow during the summer. It was a risky decision, but Hermione, Harry and Ron, along with Ginny agreed it was the best. Fred and George were a bit put out that they could no longer spy on the meetings, since the their parents returned to the house whenever there was an important event. However, this also meant that they were left alone.

The trio had passed their Apparation tests without much injury, though Ron had almost killed himself. Luckily only part of his ear managed to get caught within the wall, and now the lower part of his lobe was gone. McGonagall had passed him anyway. What choice did she have? Ron would have Apparated with or without her consent, so she might as well make it legal.

Hermione had thought that since it was eight most of the family would be in the kitchen. Only Harry sat at the table, so when the unfamiliar girl popped in, he was the only person to be scared, so only he fell off his chair. He stared at Hermione with scrutinizing eyes.

"Who the bloody hell are you?" he asked from his position on the floor, the milk from his cereal clinging to his eyebrows. Hermione laughed.

"What do you think of good old Mione now?" she questioned, spinning on her heel. Harry climbed up and stared at her with wide eyes.

"Mione, is that you?" She nodded and laughed again. Harry shook his head and muttered to himself.

"It must be the milk." Harry cleaned himself, as well as the floor and the counter. Done, he once again sat on his chair and sighed.

"Dare I ask what the occasion is?" he inquired, lifting a single now dry eyebrow. Hermione handed him the letter clutched in her hand. Harry took it, and after scanning it gave a low whistle. 

"Whoa," he stated slowly, "Whoa."

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

Fred, George, Ron and Ginny had been out playing an enlightening game of quiditch in the field outside the house. Jostling and joking, the twins were the first ones in the house. To their surprise they found two people sitting at the kitchen table deep in conversation when they arrived. An envelope sat between them.

"Well Harry, got yourself a girlfriend have you?" questioned George, grinning.

"About time. Thought you'd never get around to finding one," stated Fred, snorting.

Harry nodded towards the unfamiliar girl.

"You mean Hermione?" he asked. The twins jaws dropped, and Ron and Ginny, who had been right behind them, stared.

"Mione?" asked Ron incredulously. Hermione bit her lower lip and blushed a deep auburn, almost the color of Ginny's hair.

"Yea, it's me," she said, a mix between proud and deeply embarrassed. 

"Whoa," stated the four Weasleys at the same moment. There was a moment of strained silence, and then four different voices burst into questions. Hermione held up her hand for silence, and received none. Ron was looking at her quizzically, and Hermione pointed to the letter on the table.

"Everything is explained in there," she said, but no sooner had she spoke then eight hands dove for the paper. Harry's Seeker reflexes broke into play, and when fingers touched the table there was nothing there. Ginny dove at Harry, and grabbed the letter from her former crush's surprised fingers. 

"Would you like me to read it?" Ginny asked. The twins' chorused yeses and Ron nodded sullenly. Ginny's eyes widened as she read to her brothers the contents of Hermione's letter. Everyone's eyes were even wider by the signature, and Harry plucked the manila paper from Ginny.

"Oh my God," was all the youngest Weasley could say in defense. 

Hey, could you review?


	2. THE ARRIVAL OF MR WOOD

OMG!!!!! Thank you guys SO MUCH for all the reviews!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Chapter Two: The Arrival of Mr. Wood

One week later everyone had pretty much adjusted to the new Hermione. It was hardly necessary that Mr. Weasley inform the aging Headmaster, but he thought it a good idea all the same.

Ginny was ecstatic with the new Hermione. She may have still played quiditch, but her heart lay with _Witch Weekly_ and the newest fashions. Although this in no way interested her female friend, Ginny continued to attempt to clothe Hermione in the latest designs.

Of course Hermione humored Ginny as best as she could.

Oliver Wood was supposedly coming by some time during the week for "Order business" with Mr. Weasley. Ron, Ginny, Harry, Fred and George continuously played quiditch in hopes that they would be playing when Oliver arrived and therefore could play with them.

Hermione deemed to lie on the picnic table and watch, along with the occasional novel. Even the fact that she was now a Potter did not change her views on the rather, in her opinion, vulgar sport.

Donning a thin, although long, light purple skirt, deep blue halter and braided hair, Hermione left her room carrying one of the addictive Vampire Chronicles in her left hand and strappy sandals in her right, so as to assure Mrs. Weasley she would not step on anything in the yard.

The sandals were dropped as soon as she went around the bend and out of sight of the kitchen windows. Hermione still hated shoes with a venom. Not as much as she hated quiditch, of course.

Feeling in a slightly happy mood for God knows what reason, Hermione lay in her usual pose on the table; on her stomach, feet in the air, arms bent at the elbows, hands cushioning her chin.

The novel was laid on one of the benches next to her, Hermione didn't notice which when she dropped it. The game was vicious today on account of some sort of blackmail one team was plying against the other.

Hermione had a particularly good view because she had moved the picnic table to get closer. Being in her "happy" mood, she readily supplied compliments to her brother's team.

"GET THE BLOODY SNITCH!" she shrieked after a sort of Wronksy-whatever-the-hell-it-was-feint-thingy that Fred had executed very nicely and almost knocked Harry off his broom. It wasn't _really_ a feint though, because Hermione caught a sight of glittering gold for a second. There was stifled laughter behind her. Assuming which brother it was, Hermione's neck snapped around with a comment on her tongue.

"Well, excuse me, Bi --" she was cut off, however, because the young man behind her was most definitely _not_ a Weasley.

"I see you like quiditch," said the heavy Scottish brogue with a slight smile. Almost as if she was in a muggle movie, a strand of Hermione's hair fell off in front of her face. As she pushed it back, Hermione realized who it was.

"Harry'll want to know you're here," she replied, not correcting the former quiditch captain's assumption. She slide off the table and jogged into the middle of the field, hearing the light squish of grass behind her as Oliver followed her.  
"HARRY BLOODY POTTER GET YOUR BLOODY ARSE DOWN HERE NOW!" Hermione yelled, hands cupped around her mouth. There was an almost audible squeak as the game stopped and everyone looked down.

"Hermione, swearing? Is the sky falling? Quick someone, look," joked Ron to Ginny. She pretended not to listen, and instead stared at the specks down below. Specks.

"Wood's here," Ginny replied, and launched off towards the ground. Ron followed behind her, then in front as he pushed ahead.

The two were neck and neck as they hurtled towards the ground. At the last moment Ginny turned her broom parallel and landed lightly with the sort of the ladylike grace Mrs. Weasley had been trying to infuse in her for years. Ron hit the ground with a crack, but managed to get up all the same.

Harry had reached the ground before them and was already talking animatedly to Wood. Fred and George landed the same time as their younger siblings. They clasped arms in the sort of manly way with Wood that always confused Ginny and Hermione.

The two girls radiated towards each other, and whispered lightly as the boys discussed quiditch and Wood's new teaching job.

"So, Hermione . . ." giggle Ginny, trailing off on purpose. Turning a rather becoming shade of red that match her highlights, Hermione slapped Ginny on the arm.

"Really, Ginny, you prat," snapped Hermione, staring away from her friend pointedly. This turned out to be a bad idea, however, because she managed to look Oliver Wood straight in the eye. A muffled giggle to her right brought her out of a reverie, and Hermione hit Ginny again, this time harder and on the head.

"God, completely forgot," said Harry, noticing the direction Wood was looking. "Ginny and my sister, Hermione." Wood's eyes snapped back to Harry.

"Sister? Same Hermione Granger?" he asked, expecting the obvious no.

"Yep, Hermione Potter now though," answered Hermione, tilting her head. As Ginny let off a snort, Hermione's left foot banged into Ginny's right ankle. As her friend almost collapsed, Hermione turned into the model of sisterly concern.

"Oh, Ginny, whatever happened?" cooed Hermione unconvincingly, "Why don't you sit here, or possibly back at the house?" Ginny straightened her right leg and glared at her friend.

"I don't know Hermione, whatever DID happen?" The boys exchanged tired looks and headed towards the house. Hermione and Ginny lagged behind, exchanging glares, and then laughter.

Hermione lay on her bed at the Burrow, playing with the letter in her hands. The envelope, which was still strangely heavy, lay on her stomach. Dropping the letter, Hermione picked up the envelope with the frown, and dug around inside.

Her fingers brushed a soft package at the bottom corner. Pulling it out, Hermione looked at the small corner of cloth in her hands. Being in a rather uncomfortable position, Hermione sat up and began opening the tiny cloth bag.

Lying in the palm of her hand, nestled in soft baby pink cloth was a silver necklace. The circular charm was woven and carven with designs of leaves and other things. It was heavy, though not obstinately so. It was on a rather delicate chain, but Hermione sensed that it was stronger than it looked.

She undid the clasp and put the necklace on. When she looked in Ginny's mirror, she noticed how the necklace lay just above the low neckline of her halter-top. Perhaps her mother had been the same size as her daughter.

Tears came to her eyes as she thought of a woman she had never even seen. Maybe Harry had pictures of them somewhere. Their parents. It had never occurred to her that her parents were dead, not once during the many days she had known she was Harry's sister.

Fat tears squeezed out of her slitted eyes and Hermione hated herself for it. Harry was so strong, stronger than she could ever be, it seemed.

The muffled voices downstairs brought her back to reality, away from the clouds of green light that had clouded her vision. If Harry did have pictures of Lily and James Potter, they would be in his cloak, upstairs in his trunk.

And he was downstairs talking to Wood.

Making up her mind, Hermione wiped away the tears and tiptoed out to the landing, and then hearing no movement, crept up the stairs to the final floor, where Ron's room was. The door was partially open, and Hermione pushed it open further.

It squeaked, but Hermione was sure that no one could here it down in the living room. Harry's trunk was pressed against the edge of the hastily made bed that was Ron's. Pulling up the cover, Hermione closed her eyes until she felt the silky material of the Invisibility Cloak.

She shook it out, and a worn book fell out. Hermione picked it up, and opened it slowly. There, waving back at her, were the two people she knew were her parents. Sobbing, Hermione clutched the book to her chest, and felt weak as the tears fell again.

Squeak.

Only one stair squeaked, and that was on the landing below Hermione. Quickly Hermione closed the trunk and pushed it back to beside the bed. She swung the Invisibility Cloak around her shoulders and clutched the ends to her chest.

Wait, where was the photo album?

Looking around frantically, Hermione caught sight of it behind the door. She hadn't closed the door! Scrambling, Hermione grabbed the book and hit the door back to its former position. Praying whoever was coming upstairs hadn't seen the door close, Hermione threw herself into the only vacant corner and held her breath.

Ron burst into the room, followed by Harry and Oliver. An inflatable mattress was thrown into Hermione's corner and hit her. The breath she had been carefully holding was knocked out of her, and she bit her lip.

Ron and Harry mumbled something to Oliver that she couldn't hear because her ears were ringing. They disappeared and Oliver Wood threw himself onto the mattress. Hermione curled up farther, and threw her head back.

It hit the wall with a snap, and Hermione inwardly cursed. It seemed, however, that Wood hadn't heard because he hadn't moved.

Listening to his breath until it was even, Hermione stepped over the mattress corner that trapped her, and moved towards the door. There was a slithering sound suddenly, and the cloak fell from around to pool quite visibly around her bare feet.

Turning, Hermione found herself staring into the face of Oliver Wood, who was awake and holding the corner of the cloak in his hand.

HEE HEE HEE HEE HEE HEE HEE HEE! I love cliffies.

I know that I haven't updated in FOREVER, but my many reviews for this story inspired me. Hee hee hee hee. TA FAIR READERS!

Just keep the reviews coming.


	3. THE BURNING AMULET

Well, here it is. The eagerly awaited third chappie.

Enjoy it.

Savor it.

Review it.

hint, hint. nudge, nudge. wink, wink

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Chapter Three: The Burning Amulet 

Hermione looked at Oliver, eyes wide. He flashed a smile and with a flick of his wrist, pulled her legs from under her with the cloak.

She landed with an un-graceful 'umph' on his lap. He was obviously not asleep.

"So, Hermione, what are you doing up here in Ron's room with a –" he paused to look at the silky cloak clutched in his hand, – "an Invisibility Cloak?" She swallowed hard, and thought furiously. The sparkle in his eyes was getting on her nerves. How she longed to hit him, and run down to the kitchen.

"I'm looking for a photo album." The truth was out before she could stop herself. Oliver raised an eyebrow, and looked at the brown album in her arms. She clutched it tighter. He didn't move.

"Oh," he replied softly. The look in his eyes changed to something else. Hermione glared at him. Her hair almost crackled. Fire flashed in her eyes, and Oliver saw her skin actually begin to _glow_.

"I don't need your pity," she hissed. With a hard shove to his mid-section, she slid off his lap and stood up, smoothing down her skirt with one hand. The temperature in the room dropped a few degrees. Oliver held up his hands in self defense, but she had already left.

He looked down at the cloak in his hands. With a shrug, he pushed it into Harry's trunk, and leaned back on the mattress, thoughts whirling in his head.

* * *

Hermione stormed down to the landing, and slammed into Ginny's room. It was still empty, so she took relish in yanking the door behind her with all of her strength. It shut with a crash and the room shook for a few seconds. 

_WHO does he THINK he IS?_ she thought furiously. _Some kind of bloody SHRINK? _Her breathing was finally settling back to it's normal pace. Her hands burned from where she had pushed away. He was well defined, for a prat.

Now that she thought about it, Oliver hadn't really done anything wrong. He was, in fact, rather silent. For a guy, at least. Harry or Ron would have done and/or said something stupid and insensitive.

But that didn't stop her anger.

There was a burning sensation on her chest, and when she looked into the mirror, she was surprised to see that the Celtic amulet her mother had given her was glowing. The skin around it was rosy from the light.

Hermione leaned in, and the amulet hung in mid air. She could feel the heat radiating off of it. All the same, she felt no desire to remove it. With a sigh, Hermione wrapped the amulet in the cloth it came from, and lay down on the bed.

She would read a bit, before she went to sleep, and maybe find that book on amulets she knew she brought with her. But her eyes drifted closed, and the next thing she knew, Ginny was waking her up for breakfast.

With a jolt, Hermione sat up and looked at her watch. She had slept through dinner and the nighttime. She looked across at the mirror, to find her hair a crumpled mess and her pale skin showing no reflection of the burn it had received the night before. Now, she took off the fabric, and was relieved to find the amulet stationary and shining from the metal, not some unearthly light.

Ginny sat on the edge of her bed, looking at Hermione's necklace.

"Wowzer," she whispered. "That's a beautiful necklace. Where'd you get it?" Ginny reached for the amulet, but Hermione wrapped her hand around it, and turned away. The youngest Weasley huffed for a moment, but she couldn't stay distant for long, and was soon brushing Hermione's hair.

They talked for a little on the upcoming school year, and Hermione's hopes for the Head Girl position. The badge, if she got it, was due to come in the letter.

"School letters s'posed to come today," Ginny said, pulling Hermione's hair into a French braid. Hermione nodded, and received a sharp rap on the head with the comb. Ginny unraveled the braid and started again.

"When we go to Diagon Alley, you must come with me to Possets," stated Ginny, and tied off the braid with a pink ribbon. Hermione sighed and pulled the end out of her hand. Possets was a new store that supplied clothing to the fashionable student.

Hermione despised it with every fiber of her being.

"Ginny, I want to go to Flourish and Blotts. There's this marvelous new book series I want to start on. I don't have _time _for –" But Ginny waved her argument away with her hand, and pulled Hermione over to her trunk to find an outfit to match the ribbon.

"You need some new clothes, Hermione. You're taller now. You'll need some new blouses. And Madame Malkin's clothes are so, old . . ." Ginny trailed off as she dug through the trunk. "Don't you have _anything_ pink?" she finally asked, exasperated. She had taken out the clothing and laid it on the bed to survey.

"No," replied Hermione, and looked at her uniform lying on the bed. "I guess I do need some new skirts, don't I?" Ginny giggled, and picked one up in front of her.

"No, you don't. They don't make skirts in fashionable lengths, you know. Girls would kill to have skirts this length. They have Anti-Alteration charms on them." It was Hermione's turn to be exasperated. Although Possets supplied everything else, it couldn't get the skirts shorter. Contract, it seemed.

"I don't need short skirts." Ginny laughed.

"Of course you do."

"No, I don't."

"Yes."

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

"Do you have any fashion sense?"

"No."

"Alright then," sighed Ginny, and she put the skirts back into Hermione's trunk. "Just don't throw them away. You might need them." Hermione snorted, but she didn't stop Ginny.

They settled with a white top and jeans with a pink scarf (Ginny's) threaded through the waist band. The two girls went down to breakfast, where everyone was finally settling, and the letters were waiting at their respective spots.

Hermione felt that dressing up everyday was pointless, but Ginny was having great fun, and it seemed that the youngest Weasley was the only one who could.

Hermione ate slowly, avoiding Oliver Wood as much as she could. This was not a problem, because the boys were crowded around him, trying to get as much information as possible. About what, Hermione had no idea.

_Probably about Quidditch, _she thought, annoyed._ I don't get the point of it. Does it HAVE a point? Other than beating each other up_. Having settled that there was no visible point for Quidditch, Hermione finished her breakfast happily and reached for her school letter.

It was heavier than usual, and with an excited shriek, Hermione ripped open the envelope and out tumbled the Head Girl badge. Ginny squealed and lunged at Hermione, enveloping her in a hug.

Mrs. Weasley was next, and then the boys. She carefully avoided Oliver Wood, but Harry, being clueless, didn't recognize the signs. He made some sort of comment, after which Hermione stepped on his foot and he choked on his pancake, efficiently avoiding any sore topics.

Hermione knew that she would have to face Oliver sooner or later, and being who she was (i.e. not a procrastinator) she should have preferred it to be sooner.

But Oliver Wood threw everything out of whack, and Hermione found herself wishing the topic to come up later. First she had to think up and excuse for Harry. Hopefully he could forget about it.

Or not.

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Sorry for the short chapter. I had almost NO TIME, so I typed something up and posted it. Sorry folks. But, hey, you got an update, right? 

Right?

RIGHT?

Of course. **giggles pleasantly**

You always love updates.

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	4. DIAGON ALLEY

Thanks to the overwhelming amount of reviews in such a short time, here is a new chappie. Please enjoy. There's some Oliver/Hermione fluff AND protective brother stuff.

I love dramas.

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Chapter Four: Diagon Alley

Hermione stood in the fireplace at the Leaky Cauldron and breathed in the musky scent of alcohol and dust so deep her chest ached. Then she let it out, and followed the barreling Mrs. Weasley though the tables to the back door.

She heard Oliver land behind her. _Why does HE have to come_, she thought sulkily, and resisted the temptation to turn around.

His sweeping footsteps sounded behind her, and she hurried faster, managing to bang her hip on the edge of a table. She cursed loud enough to make Tom look up, but Harry was there, helping her up, before Oliver could move.

She smiled and leaned on Harry as they maneuvered to the back.

There, it was a few wand taps, and Hermione was stepping away from Harry to look at Diagon Alley. She had missed it's familiarity, and the bustling of the wizards and witches who bartered and window shopped up and down the streets.

Trying to avoid Ginny, Hermione slipped past Mrs. Weasley and into Flourish and Blotts. The door clanged behind her, and she had to stop, to take in the bookshelves and scowling clerk and new-books counter.

Then she wandered up and down the aisles, grabbing the occasional book and text for class, until she had a pile that went over her head.

That made moving rather difficult, and she tripped over a staircase, books tumbling down with her following, onto something soft and lumpy and blonde.

Blonde.

Hermione jumped up, and managed to have half her things when the all-too familiar Malfoy body untangled itself from the floor, and stood up. He probably wouldn't recognize her, but all the same . . .

"So, beauty, what are you doing taking tumbles off of second-story railings?" His pick-up line was sadly lacking in verbal, but his voice smoothed it down. It fell like slime down her back. If he knew who she was, then he wouldn't have called her beauty.

And that really pissed her off.

"Fuck off," she said calmly, and finished gathering her books. When she stood, they all toppled off again, and she sighed impatiently. Malfoy was still smiling.

"Which part did you not get? The FUCK, or the OFF?" asked Harry from behind Malfoy, two books under his right arm, glowering. By himself, he was an impressive figure.

"What, she your property, Potty?" replied Malfoy, grinning as Hermione finished piling her books, and was trying to find a way to lift them.

"I wouldn't think so. Incest isn't really my thing, Ferret Boy," smiled Harry, and he shoved past Malfoy to help Hermione with her books. She smiled at him gratefully, and was about to stand with what was left when Malfoy shoved him hard, so both sat on the floor.

"Since when do you have a sister, Potter?" Malfoy asked, arms folded.

"For a month Malfoy."

"Oh, really?" Then Hermione decided to join the conversation.

"Hermione Elizabeth Potter, formerly Hermione Granger. Repugnant to meet you." The young Malfoy was shocked into silence for a few seconds.

"Wow. Two Potters. Didn't know your mum could spawn so quickly," he said finally, recovering his voice. Hermione's eyes narrowed, and without thinking she threw a book from her pile with stunning accuracy at his head.

Malfoy ducked a second too late, and the book collided with a loud thump. "Bitch!" he cried, and lunged at Hermione, who, suddenly faced with 140 lbs of muscle, cowered backwards.

Harry was in the way too fast to see, and there was another thump as the two collided and smashed backwards into a display.

Oliver Wood suddenly materialized, and pulled Hermione to her feet with one hand and shoved her out the door with the other. They were outside and breathing heavily in a matter of seconds. Oliver looked down at Hermione, who found herself a victim of a hard gaze.

"Are you going back in there?" she asked him, putting down the books she had neglected to pay for. They only tugged on her conscience for a moment.

"No." he replied quickly, and nodded in the general direction of the alley. "Do you need to be anywhere?" he asked. Hermione said the first thing that came to mind.

"Possets, please."

* * *

Ginny was ecstatic when Hermione stepped through the door of the very pink shop. A skinny witch dressed in green lined with gold flipped through _Witch Weekly_ behind the counter.

"So you DID come," she sighed with relief, and rushed forward to usher Hermione farther into the sea of clothing. Hermione involuntarily shuddered.

"So, you'll need blouses, skirts, dress robes, and some shoes," said Ginny, sweeping Hermione with as single, experienced gaze. With a sigh, Hermione succumbed herself to the on slaughter of clothing and shoes.

So an hour later she had uniforms, and was slowly picker her way through a rack of dress robes. With an excited shriek, Ginny rushed towards Hermione with yards of red fabric and black lace. Smiling, she pushed Hermione into a dressing room with the dress.

Hermione came out a moment later, dressed in a red dress with a top layer of fine black lace. Her hair shimmered from the red, and her skin glowed. Her eyes looked like jewels in her finely-formed face. Ginny gasped, and turned to look again.

"I think Oliver should offer his opinion . . ." said Ginny carefully, and was out the door before Hermione could sneeze. She had turned to change when the door clanged, and there was a flurry of hastened footsteps behind her.

She had almost made it to the dressing room when Ginny grabbed her arm and spun her around, swirling the dress out in all it's red silk glory. The clerk had abandoned her magazine, and was watching them now.

The way Oliver's eyes widened when he was saw Hermione, and the way she looked back at him, beautiful in her dress, and the way Ginny almost rubbed her hands in delight. Matchmaking was only third to fashion and school.

The effect was ruined in a moment though, because Harry burst in, looking for the girls for lunch, and he saw Hermione and Oliver and Ginny in their circle, and his eyes looked thunderous.

"Lunch, anyone?" he asked a little too harshly, and the reverie was broken.

"Sure, let me change," said Hermione, disappearing into the dressing room. Oliver looked for a moment like he was going to stop her, but Harry's look stopped him.

In five minutes, Hermione was back with the dress gathered in her arms, and she handed it over with the uniforms and some Galleons. Harry and Oliver were still squared off, until she touched her brother on the shoulder, and they left.

The clerk shook her head and was reaching for her magazine when she stopped. Drama like that rarely happened in Possets. Oliver Wood, the famous Quidditch player, against Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, over a girl.

She scribbled something on a piece of paper, and put it aside to give to her friend Marie with _Witch Weekly_. Maybe they could making something of it. Even interview her.

Things like that rarely happened to a clerk.

* * *

Lunch was a tumultuous affair, ending with some sort of manly clasp that signified the end of the fued. Hermione sighed in relief, and shared a glance with Ginny, after which both burst into laughter that they couldn't explain.

Hermione and Ginny had both realized at the same moment that something interesting was happening.

And Oliver's announcement of his acceptance of the Hogwarts' Flying Teacher position simply made it that much more delicious.

For sure, Hermione's last year at Hogwarts would be a fun one. A new teacher, Head Girl, and a whole new identity.

At least she had the gown to do it in.

Hermione laughed again.

* * *

Yet another short chapter, due to popular demand.

THANK YOU FOR REVIEWING! See what happens when you review a lot? I write more.

But vacation is coming up (tomorrow) and though I may write, it'll take some time to post.

Sorry, but hey -- that's life.

This, is Walgreen's.

Hehehehehehehehehehe.


	5. REFLECTIONS

1I'm about to give you a side of Peter Pettigrew you thought you'd never see. He's actually HUMAN!

I know, I know.

Scary, isn't it?

That a totally evil dude is human?

Frightens the shit out me (which is why it was so fun to write).

Chapter Five: Reflections

* * *

Peter Pettigrew had grown thin with worry.

Not that he was worried about his Lordship's plan. Everything was perfect. The Potter brat was exactly where he was needed. The Deatheaters were assembled. Draco Malfoy was preparing for his tests of membership.

But something unexpected had shown up.

And suddenly Peter Pettigrew was in fear of his life. The Dark Lord wasn't fond of surprises. Surprises often ended with a dead messenger. Normally, with such a message, Wormtail would have sent some lower minion that was easily expendable.

But this message required a softer touch, one that aforementioned lower minions lacked. So Wormtail was forced to attend to this matter himself. He smoothed at his crinkled robes outside the rooms that the Lord occupied. The wrinkles were beyond repair, but anything to keep from giving this message was employed.

Finally, he knocked on the door, and shuffled to the half crawl-half bow that everyone but the highest Deatheaters used in the presence of Lord Voldemort.

It swung open on it's own rusty hinges, squeaking ominously. Wormtail warily stepped in, eyes focused on the floor, and the thick snake tail swirling out of sight. The pattern begged the eye to follow, and he obliged, all the way to the satisfied head suspended in hair, on which the pale hand rested.

"Yes, Wormtail," snapped the Lord, shaken out of his reverie by the hunched figure. Although not his most imposing servant, Wormtail had a certain, aura, around him that spoke of servitude. It was an air most assumed in his presence.

Save that Potter bastard.

His entire plans for taking over the world, and purging it's blood, ruined by one child. A scrawny child at that. Harry Potter didn't even have the grace to be large, or imposing, with some sort of important feature.

Each year, the child was pulled out of his grasp. The sixth attempt had never occurred – Lord Voldemort was too busy planning to be dillydallying over some half-hearted assassination attempt. If Harry Potter had avoided death at one year of age, he certainly wasn't going to drop dead at sixteen.

But this was Potter's final year of Hogwarts. It was the beginning of the end. As surely as if it had been put in the prophecy, Voldemort knew that the seventh year would be his final chance. The second Potter was out of school grounds he would be swept up into Auror training – one of the most secretive processes in the world. It rivaled the election of the Pope.

No one knew where the training facility was, or what was in it. There was a series of tests involved in acceptance, and Voldemort had yet to slip in a spy. Potter would virtually die for the three years of his training. After that, well, his chances would be slim. Very slim.

About 1/2000 of an inch, slim.

So they had to strike now. Kill the Potter child before he became an Auror. And Lord Voldemort was perfecting the perfect plan. Everything fit perfectly. It was, essentially, an unbreakable scheme that had no way of failure.

"Um, my Lordship, there's been a slight, um, discovery in, in, in London. Something you, you, your Lordship might be interested in." Lord Voldemort was never fond of Wormtail's stuttering in his presence, and it was grating on his nerves.

"Spit it out, Wormtail."

"Well, um, Malfoy, I mean, _Draco_ Malfoy has found out something, in, in, Diagon Alley. It's disturbing to the plan," stuttered Wormtail, still skirting around the subject. The man formerly known as Tom Riddle stifled a sigh, and petted the smooth head of the snake. It eyed Wormtail hungrily. It's master didn't allow it much human flesh, but she could tell that this one was annoying him.

"Would you like to lose another finger, Wormtail?" There was a hasty shake of the head, and dandruff floated to the ground. Voldemort wrinkled his nose in disgust. "Well then get on with it. _Now_."

"There's another Potter child."

There, it was out in the open. Wormtail bowed lower, so close he could have touched his head to the ground with a few more inches. The slithering sound of Voldemort's hand on his snake's head paused.

"_What did you say?_"

"There's another Potter child, Master. Form, formerly Hermione Granger." The name brought up images in his mind. Potter's year, bushy-haired. Infuriatingly good at magic. His source in Hogwarts told him she was Head Girl. But the pictures and information swam. How could there be another child?

"How could you have let this happen?" The voice was deceptively light, as if he was asking the time. Wormtail knew that voice. It was the voice he used before cursing someone into next week. Or Hell.

"I, I, I, didn't know about her, sir. No one did," he lied, stuttering over the unfamiliar words. The stuttering was normal, so Voldemort didn't take notice. A memory flitted into Peter Pettigrew's mind. Sort of like your life, flashing before your eyes before you die.

* * *

_It was too bright, the maternity ward of St. Mungo's. All bright yellows and blues and picks and dancing teddy bears. James was pacing the length of the room, still worried from Lily's abrupt announcement in the middle of dinner that her water had broke._

_Sirius, tie loosened, was sprawled in the hard, pink plastic chair, chin tucked to his chest, apparently asleep. As a present, for before the baby came, he had made James and Lily dinner, a marvelous affair with Grecian recipes and large amounts of wine for everyone except Lily, and James, who had only one glass._

_Remus was alert for being intoxicated. Perhaps it was his werewolf blood, he had always managed to hold his liquor well, even when they were all at Hogwarts, sneaking Firewhiskies at the Hog's Head._

_He was sitting next to Sirius, gazing into oblivion, as he often did. It seemed a talent, a part of him, that could always separate, and float off to some nether region where only he could reach. Peter envied him._

_And there was Peter, nervously sitting in his own uncomfortable hospital chair. He was waiting until the brat was born, so he could call it in to the Lord._ _It made him uneasy, lying to his friends, even more now that a child was being brought into it all._

_Oh sure, children were being born into the war every minute. But this was Lily and James' child. A baby Potter. Some innocent little thing that he would have to betray and eventually kill. It made him very, very uncomfortable._

_James hit the wall and continued pacing. He had no idea what the baby would be, or if it was being born feet or head first. Lily had refused an ultrasound. They had all been there that day, watching the two feud.._

"_James, this is _my_ child. I'll know if something is wrong. Women have survived centuries without knowing what sex their baby will be!" Her eyes had been flashing, a dangerous sign before she was pregnant and even more so now._

"_Lily, you can't know everything!" James had exploded, pounding on the table. Lily had flinched and he softened slightly. "I'm worried about you. That's all."_

"_Oh, James," she sighed, "don't worry. There's something about being pregnant that gives me instincts. I'll know. I promise, if anything feels wrong, I'll go straight to St. Mungo's. Until then, I'm staying in the dark." She paused. "And so are you."_

_The conversation continued it's reel in James mind. _What if something is wrong and she doesn't know it until now! To hell with motherly instincts!_ But James would have known if something was wrong with Lily. And if he knew Lily, then she would know their child._

"_What do you wanna bet that it's gonna be a Harry James, not a Hermione Elizabeth?" asked Sirius, words barely slurred. They were all good at holding their liquor, Remus just better than the rest of them. _

_James and Lily had chosen two names, the first, Harry James, because they liked the initials HP, and James due to his father. Hermione Elizabeth was in respect of Lily's mother, who had recently died in a Deatheater attack, whose name was Elizabeth, and a large fan of Shakespeare. "I'll take you ten galleons that it's a girl, not a boy," tossed Remus. The two shook hands, and turned to look at James. Normally he would have been offended, but now he was too worried. _

"_JAMES! YOU BLOODY BASTARD!" shrieked a voice from inside the hospital room. All four men winced, and James stopped pacing for a moment. There were some hushing noises, and a silencing spell was cast from one of the nurses._

_Sirius couldn't help it. He started laughing, light at first, but then it spread until his ribs hurt. Remus joined it, and so did Peter, until James was the only one silent. The three finally stopped, and looked at him. There was a pause, and then the four were hysterical again._

_A crab-faced nurse shushed them from down the hall. They all eventually sobered to the occasional snicker. James finally took a seat in a yellow plastic chair obviously molded for a smaller body._

_Silence and immobility finally reigned over the waiting room. There was seventeen minutes of it (Peter constantly checked his watch) until the door swung open behind them, and a very tired nurse appeared, with a small pink bundle in her arms. James stood instantly, and with a grumble Sirius began to fish out ten galleons._

"_The other one, Harry, is in there with his mother," stated the nurse. Sirius paused in his fishing, and James, holding the tiny Hermione Elizabeth Potter, froze. Remus' eyes widened. _

"_Pardon?" breathed James. The nurse smiled at the confused looks on their faces._

"_There were twins." Everyone looked at each other. Sure, Lily had been big. But not THAT big. James looked stunned, before a bright smile lit up his face. The nurse smiled again, and left through the glass doors._

"_Anyone want to hold her? I want to see my son too." Peter was the closest, so he took the tiny bundle into his arms. She was so little, with a frosting of red curls on her head. The wide, hazel eyes looked up at him with total innocence. _

_He couldn't betray this child.

* * *

So he had told Voldemort that they had had a son. Once they died, Peter figured that the baby girl had been hustled off to some foster home, never to be heard of again. But then, right on time for the big plan, she had to pop up again._

The hazel eyes and pink blanket danced circles around his head. Voldemort, stunned, didn't stop his minion as he stumbled away from the room. Only the door slamming shut brought him out of his silence.

With a roar, Lord Voldemort swept out of his chair and threw the silver chalice on the table beside him deep into the fireplace. His red eyes glowed brighter than the embers that shot sparks at the contact. He turned to the large snake curled by his feet.

"Find her," he hissed at his snake. She looked back at him with eyes like onyx.

"Kill her and bring me back her wand."

* * *

Hermione had no idea she was being followed.

Packing her trunk at the Burrow, narrowly avoiding the constant volley of fashion magazines from Ginny, she didn't notice the small fly on the window that followed her from room to room.

Instead, she focused on not blushing every time she was in the presence of Oliver Wood, and keeping Ginny out of her school things. The latest angle of the youngest Weasley was that Hermione didn't need as many books, and could use the space for some of Ginny's cosmetics.

"You need to use green eye shadow! Black eyeliner! It'll bring out your eyes and make then seem green and gold. HERMIONE! Listen to me! If you want Oliver Wood to notice you, try some make-up on! It can't HURT!" It was the same thing, over and over, until Hermione was almost screaming. She finally gave up and slipped outdoors. If Ginny put all of Boots into her trunk, she didn't care.

She stood in the field just beyond the Burrow, and breathed in the fresh air. There was time enough that night to pack. Maybe teach Ginny another Evanescence song. Ginny's voice was amazing, but she would only sing for Hermione. It was a phenomenon, since she had only known Hermione five years.

There were a lot of things about Ginny that only Hermione knew. Her voice was just one. Like her affinity for eating Bertie's Beans in alphabetical order. Or the scrapbook that she kept of models in _Witch Weekly_ or _Enchanted_. Or that she had one of Draco Malfoy's socks.

Hermione didn't even want to know how she had gotten it.

Ginny's crush on Draco Malfoy baffled Hermione. She had told Ginny that he was an egotistical, chauvinistic, stuck-up, inbred, evil, piggy, bastard son of a bitch.

"Yes," sighed Ginny. "But he's a _hot_ egotistical, chauvinistic, stuck-up, inbred, evil, piggy, bastard son of a bitch." That was when Hermione had given up. But Ginny had quickly added, "I wouldn't date him though."

That made it all better, then.

Hermione plopped onto the grassy hill, spread out into the form of a starfish. The sun shone down on her stomach, and her face warmed. She closed her eyes, and thought of the year to come.

But it continuously floated away. Her mind returned to that moment in Possets, when she had appeared in the red and black lace, and the look on Oliver's face. Like he actually _liked_ what he saw. For Hermione, who was only seventeen, that look on a twenty-one year-old Quidditch star's face equaled that she looked good.

But all the thoughts about why he did were irrelevant. He did it, and that was all that mattered. Hermione felt the corner of her lips tug into a smile. In her mind, she twirled in the dress, her hair falling down over her shoulders, and Oliver Wood stood in the background, watching.

She didn't see the dark figure, the onyx-eyed snake of Lord Voldemort, slither closer.

Opening her eyes for a moment, Hermione found the sun blocked by a large figure with hair that fell around his face, and a burr.

"Hello," said Oliver evenly. He sat next to her, and she sat up, trying to discreetly rub the grass off the back of her shirt. As befitting a gentleman, he pretended not to notice.

"Hello," she replied, and as a small silence followed, Hermione despaired at the instantly failing conversation. She wracked her brain for any possible topics. She despised Quidditch. He loved it. She loved books, he didn't. School!

"What's with the position at Hogwarts?" she asked, hoping to sound nonchalant. It came out a little accusatory. Mentally, Hermione smacked herself on the head, and wished herself an ostrich.

"Oh, well, Puddlemere's manager just quit, and we're switching owners, so however disastrous the results, we're taking the season off." Hermione raised an eyebrow, but he didn't notice. His entire concentration was fixed on the blade of grass in his hands.

"I don't know much about Quidditch, but, wow . . ." Oliver nodded slightly, and he looked up at her. She was facing away, towards the sun, and he was the highlights on her fair skin, and how her eyelashes looked like black lace.

On impulse, Oliver leaned across and touched her cheek. She jerked away, and turned to look at him. He felt like chopping off his own hand. Her beautiful eyes were wide, and doe-like. There was just the beginning of anger in there.

Oliver personally felt like avoiding it (he had, after all, seen Hermione in a temper once) and made to stand. Her limbs feeling like they were no longer attached, Hermione reached across to stop him.

The two froze to look at her hand on his wrist, keeping him from standing. Then his gaze floated up to her face. Their eyes locked like a steel bar. Hermione's breath floated out between then, a small cloud.

And once again, Harry burst into the scene.

Oliver jumped back, and Hermione's lock on his arm flung her back, down the hill. With an 'umph' she landed on her back, down twelve feet.

_Well, I'm certainly graceful,_ she thought, and stood. The snake, eyeing her chance, lunged forward, for an ankle. She may not get a shot like this again. The fangs sunk into Hermione's left ankle.

Oliver and Harry watched, stunned, as Hermione collapsed at the bottom of the hill, the poison spreading quickly. In a minute and a half, it would reach her heart, stopping the vital organ instantly.

* * *

Well? What'd you thing? Love it? Hate it? Find a new side of Peter Pettigrew you thought you'd never see?

I know, I know, I've made him human.

It's so much easier to hate them when they aren't human.

Sssssoooooooooooo . . . .

Now that we've passed the preliminaries, will you send me reviews telling me I'm a total bitch, and have to update soon?

I LOOOOVE those reviews. They just brighten up my day.


	6. WINE

1THANKS SO MUCH FOR THE REVIEWS!

OHMYGOD!

I'M SO LOVED!

THANKS BUNDLES!

Heheheheheheheheheheh.

Chapter Six: Wine

* * *

Harry reacted instantly. He lunged for his fallen sister. Oliver noticed the snake slithering off. With a cry he drew his wand and leapt at the snake.

Harry reached Hermione in seconds. She was convulsing, her eyes rolling around in her sockets. The skin around the bite was turning purplish and swelling. Harry thought furiously.

_Venom,_ he thought_, when did we learn venom? DADA, sixth year. Damn, Hermione would know. _But Hermione was dying. Her textbook knowledge was useless. Harry took out his wand, still thinking.

Oliver caught up to the snake in moments. He wasn't a professional Quidditch player because of puny muscles. All the same, his courage drained a little at the sight of Hermione's assailant.

The snake was coiled, scales gleaming in the sun. Drops of color like teardrops trailed down the scales of it's back, flashes of red and burnt orange. It would have been beautiful if it hadn't tried to kill Hermione.

Tried to kill, Oliver tried to assure himself.

His moment of hesitation gave the snake to rise, until it's flashing eyes were level with his own deep brown orbs. A hiss escaped through long fangs. The sun shone, flickering on them. They looked like ivory daggers.

They were ivory daggers, with a poisoned point.

The snake watched Oliver calculatingly. He was tall, that was sure, but she was strong. She had killed more humans than he would ever know. It was a simple matter of waiting him out. The master wouldn't mind him dead. The master never minded more bodies.

Oliver had wrestled enough to recognize what the snake was doing. Dodging in and out, the fangs never came close enough to his body. His advantage was his wand – something he wasn't doing.

So he flashed off a few of the more deadly stuns. But nothing was happening. The spells slid off the scales like water. And just as harmless. The snake flashed tongue; the damn thing was laughing at him.

With an cry, Oliver lashed out a whip spell at the creature's neck. It tightened, as it was supposed to. In truth, Oliver used it in Quidditch practice for run-away quaffles. But it worked as a cord as well.

Voldemort's snake lashed out against the invisible rope. It tightened even more. The scales could deflect spells, but this was a different spell.

The rattling tail of the snake snapped around and brought Oliver's feet from under him. Then the strangling snake was towering over him, fangs wide open and forked tongue flickering. It was laughing again.

"Bite this, bitch."

Oliver turned to see Fred and George with their wands simultaneously pointed at the creature. She only had time to blink her second eyelid before the twins muttered a curse under their breath and the creature was knocked back, mouth full of wate.

She gurgled for a few minutes, the water refilling every time she swallowed, until the writhing body lay still. Oliver stood up, and gave the twins each a manly clasp in thanks. Then they turned to Hermione.

Ginny and Mrs. Weasley were clustered around her and Harry. Then Ginny turned and ran for the house. Summoning someone, most likely. Mr. Weasley.

But the figure accompanying the youngest Weasley back to the field was Albus Dumblerdore. His robes flapping around him as he ran with Ginny was strongly reminiscent of Snape. But that thought was chased away as he approached the lying figure.

The rigors had stopped, a dangerous sign.

There was some muttering among the group, and then Ginny came over to the three boys. Her face was paler than usual.

"Dumbledore's taking her to St. Mungo's. They have a poison center that'll help. He's Apparating her. We're all to go, too." Her last comment was directed at Oliver. The twins nodded, and disappeared with a pop.

"She'll tough it out," said Ginny, her voice shaking with the held tears that shone in her eyes. Oliver didn't know how to comfort her.

But she turned away and left with the rest of the family. With a sign, Oliver turned to the corpse of the snake. But before his eyes, it shimmered and disappeared.

* * *

Voldemort eagerly awaited news from his snake. She would have completed her mission by now. His hands curled over the invisible wood of that damn Potter child's wand.

He waited.

And waited.

And waited.

And hours passed.

But there was no news.

An uncomfortable feeling was growing in his stomach. He didn't like it. Dark Lords didn't have uncomfortable feelings.

The last time he had felt this . . .

No. He had said that was behind him, when he rose to power, and it was. Tom Riddle was gone. Now he was Lord Voldemort, and any skeletons from Tom Riddle were securely padlocked away.

All the same, her face rose before his eyes. The goblet of wine swayed in his hands as her dark mulberry curls swam in the red vintage. Those burning gold eyes. Her laugh. Her touch. Their . . .

No.

He told himself she was gone. They were all gone, all of them. Her whole damn family. There was no need for them. Their use had passed.

But her words echoed in his head.

_All this time. Was all of it_? _Any of it? Is Gemma not real? Am I just an illusion? Of course I am. Touch her, and you'll be cursed. Spilt blood and spilt guilt. Touch her and your flesh will crawl with the curses . . ._

He had killed her before she had finished her curse. No need for remorse. Wouldn't do to have a curse hanging over his victory.

But that feeling was growing in his stomach, like mold. Leeching. He took a swig of the wine, and when he lowered the gold goblet, her face appeared again. The red mouth forming those last words.

Damn her.

He dropped the goblet onto the floor. The wine spread into the carpet. There was hardly any noise.

With a small grunt, Voldemort turned on his heel and left the room. The coolness of the hall soothed any heated thoughts he had been having. About her, and Gemma.

There was a small noise next to him.

His snake lay curled at his feet. Her dark eyes were black. Not with blood. With death. They had killed her.

He couldn't stand to lose her, but it was the way this worked. It was a war after all. Wars have bloodshed.

They thought they were winning.

The death of the snake was a sign, they would say.

But they were wrong. Dumbledore was lying. Voldemort's lips curled into a hideous smile. Someone had once loved that smile. Now his followers fled in wake of it.

"Wormtail!" he bellowed. "Clean this mess up!"

_I have much to do_.

* * *

Oliver and Harry were identically pacing the waiting room. Harry looked exactly like his father had awaiting the birth of his children.

_James was pacing the length of the room, still worried from Lily's abrupt announcement in the middle of dinner that her water had broke._

Harry hit one wall, and Oliver hit the other. They turned, passed in the middle, and hit the opposite wall. The twins were watching excitedly. Fred snapped his fourth picture. Neither male noticed.

"What's wrong with them?" Ginny asked, walking in, a bag of Bertie's in her hand. She needed something to do, or her carefully cultivated nails would turn to war zones.

"Learning linear perspectives," muttered George, and caught a jelly bean thrown at him by his sister. She picked out a lime green bean striped with red and threw the rest of the back to Fred. He juggled the camera and the bag for a moment, and then dropped both.

"You're making me dizzy," she told Harry, and he stopped for a moment. Then Oliver passed him, and he started up again. Ginny threw up her hands and sat next to her mother, who was furiously knitting.

A scarf six feet long curled around her legs. Ginny's mind processed it as a snake, and she shrieked, standing up.

"What's wrong?" asked George quickly. Ginny just shook her head, and sat between her brothers.

"I thought it was a snake," she replied quietly, and put her head in her hands. Fred and George gave her a quick hug and she smiled into their shoulders.

"Thanks," she said softly.

"Oh, isn't this touching. It is beautiful, isn't it, Draco?" drawled a too-familiar voice from the doorway.

Lucius Malfoy and his son stood, perfectly posed, in the waiting room doorway. Harry and Oliver stopped pacing. Mrs. Weasley stopped knitting. Fred dropped his camera and jelly beans again.

"What do you want, Malfoy?" demanded George.

"Visiting," replied Draco, nonchalantly. No one was impressed. There would have most likely been a fight of some sort in a few moments, if the Healer who was watching Hermione hadn't walked in.

Everyone immediately forgot the Malfoys, and turned to her.

"Well, I have good news and some bad news."

* * *

DONE!

Hehehehehehehehehehehe . . . . . .

Please review?

Gracias.

Merci.

Thanks.


	7. FIRST KISS

LOOKY! I updated!

Mostly in celebration that SCHOOL ENDS NEXT WEEK. But other than that, hey, cool, whatever.

Chapter Seven: First Kiss

* * *

Voldemort sat in the Great Hall of his palace, waiting for Lucius' news. A casual observer (not that there were many of them in the headquarters of the darkest wizarding group on the planet) would have thought all of his energy was focused on the writhing minion in front of him who was trying very hard not to die.

In truth, Voldemort had his mind on the annoying little Potter girl, who was turning out to be the exact opposite of what he had originally thought of her.

His mind had been on Gemma, in fact. He thought that he saw his daughter's mulberry curls and golden eyes in that insatiable enemy.

But maybe he was wrong. Gemma had broken so easily . . .

With a savage twist of his wand, Voldemort sent the groveling minion into even deeper regions of pain. They all broke so easily.

But not her. This other Potter child. She didn't seem to be breaking at all.

A laugh bubbled up from somewhere inside of him, spilling over his lips until the horrible sound echoed in the room. His Deatheaters trembled. They thought he laughed for pain.

He laughed for power.

* * *

"Well?" asked Ron impatiently. Oliver was about to echo the same question, but thought it prudent. Generally he wasn't a prudent person, but haste had almost gotten Hermione killed.

"I have some good news, and bad news," repeated the nurse. "Which would you like to hear first?" The group blanched, except for the newest additions still sulking gracefully in the doorway.

"Good news," sighed Mrs. Weasley. The nurse nodded, and gave them encouraging smiles.

"Well, she's going to be fine," said the nurse. There was a unanimous sigh of relief. The nurse, however, wasn't done. "Unfortunately, she has to wake up first." This brought a moment of silence.

"Wake up?" asked Harry, voice raising a note on the final word.

"The venom she was caught with is very deadly. We extracted most of it, but there was a little that got to her heart. When she wakes up, which she will eventually, her heart won't be what it used to."

"What does that mean?" demanded Oliver. The nurse didn't even blink at his snappish tone. She was used to being harassed by relatives.

"Does she play quidditch?" asked the nurse. Harry shook his head.

"Think's it's a bloody waste of a sport," he murmured.

"Then she'll be fine," replied the nurse. "Just no long distance running and she'll be fine." _When she wakes up, _thought Oliver savagely, _If she does._

Lucius Malfoy thought this the best place to exit, and with a sly glance to see if his son was following him, swept from the small waiting room into the lobby of the hospital. With a glance of disgust, he Disapparated, Draco behind him.

* * *

Voldemort was working on his third minion when Lucius appeared. His heir wasn't with him, so this was purely business. Not that the Malfoys paid a large amount of social calls on the Dark Lord.

After Lucius' narrow escape from Azcaban, he kept mostly clean. Voldemort was amused by this, and therefore didn't kill him on principal. They had reached an agreement. Lucius would become his spy within the Ministry. Not that he hadn't been already. But Voldemort needed someone in deep.

"She's alive," said Lucius. Voldemort stopped torturing Dolohov.

"Pardon?" he hissed. Lucius visibly recoiled. Voldemort turned with disgust from his loyal, slavering followed.

"Go," he snapped. They vanished with a pop, until the only one left was Lucius.

"We'll kill her," he promised, and then he too Disapparated.

* * *

The entire Weasley clan had gone home, after trooping in to see Hermione. Oliver was the only one left. He was staying with the Weasleys, but had shot off a brilliant, but of the moment, excuse that he had to stay in London for a while.

He had spent a total of ten hours waiting for Hermione to wake up now. She was so peaceful, lying there, her hair spread across the pillow in a halo, like someone had arranged it.

The magical monitoring devices clicked and groaned and hissed like Muggle machines. She still had tubes in her arms, but they were glowing with the magical stimuli that they pumped into her system.

Oliver still didn't know why he was sitting there, watching her sleep. The nurse had told them that she probably wouldn't wake up until the next few days, or maybe a week.

But he still had to wait it out, see what would happen. He had this inane need to be there when she woke up. To be the first thing she saw.

Right now all she was doing was lying there, glowing eyes closed for Merlin knows how long, hair like an angel's halo. It was like they wanted her to be dead.

Damn it, Wood, Oliver told himself_, this is Hermione._

Oliver told himself

Smart, funny, and beautiful Hermione, said an irrational part of his brain.

She's Harry's bloody sister! She hates quidditch.

But not necessarily you, pointed out the irrational part.

SHE'S A BLOODY SIGN POINT FOR DISASTER!

But you're falling for her anyway.

Falling for Hermione?

Yep. Sorry, Wood, but you're falling for a smart, beautiful, funny, quidditch-hating walking sign post for disaster.

Oliver dropped his head into his hands. Why was his life suddenly getting so very bloody difficult?

When he had accepted the flying instructor's position at Hogwarts, he thought he just wanted to see the school again, deck some points from Slytherin, and see the best Seeker he'd ever had play his final year.

But was it because of Hermoine?

He thought that when she cleared Harry's glasses in third year he could have kissed her. She was brilliant. Perfect. And now a Potter.

Oh, Oliver understood exactly what Harry's stance in the bloody dress shop was. He was taking on the protective-older-brother-syndrome like second skin.

And Oliver was the enemy.

He came out of his thoughts just as he was nodding off to sleep. His head was dangerously close to hers.

Up close, her rosy lips seemed perfect. The perfect small, little pink mouth. He wondered what it would be like to kiss that mouth.

She was asleep. No one would remember.

He leaned forward, until his upper body was over hers. Her breath was even, as if she was just taking a nap, and her lips were partially open. A small sight of some little crooked white teeth (but endearingly so) peered through her lips.

Oliver paused over her, matching his breath with hers, until he felt that they were aligned almost perfectly.

Then he leaned down and pressed his mouth on hers.

There was a shot of electricity that shot up through his mouth, and down his throat. Through her lips he could taste her heartbeat. That small mouth opened a little wider, deepening the kiss, until all of Oliver's senses were focused on that one small part of her body.

The throbs of her heart were thickly echoing down his throat, and Oliver drew back with a gasp.

Now _that _was a kiss.

Hermione was making little mewing noises, and her eyes fluttered. _Fucking bloody Merlin's balls, _thought Oliver, throwing himself out of his chair and backing towards the door,_ she's awake._

Hermione's eyes were open now, and making a sweep of the room. She still seemed in a haze. Her fingers were pressed to her swollen mouth, and in a few seconds, she would spot him.

Dammit.

* * *

Hermione had awoken to the strangest feeling. It felt like someone was kissing her. But not just kissing her. As far a first kisses went, it was one of the eat-your-heart-out-Meg-Ryan types.

She could still taste him on her lips. The way a guy should taste. Deeply masculine, with a hint of some mint and maybe coffee.

Her eyes finally made it to the door, where they rested on a hazy figure. She still couldn't see straight, but she could make out some considerable height and fuzzy hair.

"Ron?" she asked, and the figure turned with a small noise and was out the door.

* * *

OOOH, who is the evil goddess?

ME.

Hehehehehehehehehehehehe.

PLEASE REVIEW.


	8. INTERLUDE

OMG, thanks for the reviews!

And I'm SO SORRY it's so short, but whatever.

Chapter Eight: Intelude

* * *

When the Weasleys came to pick up Hermione, she didn't tell Ron that she knew he had kissed her.

When they arrived back to the Burrow, and the Trio sat in the backyard on the picnic table, tossing around Bertie's Beans and swapping jokes, she didn't tell him.

That night at dinner, when their hands brushed while he was passing her the mashed potatoes, she didn't tell him, even though she longed to.

And at midnight, while Ginny was fast asleep and her amulet pulsed against her heart, Hermione thought of that amazing first kiss.

Oliver, meanwhile, wanted to kill the youngest Weasley boy. At dinner he clutched his meat knife a little too tightly as Ron passed Hermione the potatoes and she gave him a sweet smile. If she knew Oliver had kissed her, would she have smiled like that at him?

Probably not.

* * *

Oliver lay on the mattress, his hands tucked under his head so he wouldn't spring up and strangle Ron. Generally Oliver wasn't violent (only on the quidditch field), so he wasn't used to the urges to bash Ron over the head.

He still didn't know why Hermione thought it was Ron. She was a logical girl, and must have known that Mrs. Weasley wouldn't have let Ron out of her sight after the attack.

But love is blind.

_No, dammit_. He thought. This isn't love. This isn't love.

Is it?

NO, DAMMIT.

I hope not.

* * *

Hermione was asleep, dreaming again and again of that kiss, and the jolt of electricity, and the soft hair on her bare forehead, and glow of brown eyes between her fluttering lashes.

Those were perfect eyes. Deep chocolate, soulful eyes.

The amulet was pulsing harder on her chest, almost moving with the force of the light, and Hermione felt strange. She was sweating, and her heart was racing, then slowing, then racing again.

Was she falling in love? And if she was, was it with Ron or with his kiss?

Oh, that kiss.

Perfection. She could feel her whole life with that.

* * *

Ron was asleep, dreaming about potatoes.

* * *

Harry was not asleep, but very still, with his breathing even. When he was little, and still in the cupboard under the stairs, he used to amuse himself by seeing how long he could stay still, and keep his breathing even. He used that now.

Two seconds in, three out. Two in, three out.

If he didn't watch himself, he would jump up and race out to check on Hermione, to make sure no one had tried to attack her.

She was his sister.

When she had collapsed, he had stopped for a moment. Everything. His heart, his mind, his body. All of it shut down as the snake had withdrawn her fangs, and Hermione had gotten that funny look on her face.

It's my fault, he thought. All of it.

* * *

Albus Dumbledore sat in his study, watching the swirling gold machines. Voldemort was getting stronger everyday. He hadn't told anyone that four Order members were dead after being tortured for information. Magically, they were protected.

But Voldemort used Muggle things, pincers and tweezers and little scalpels to twist away the flesh, so when he asked his questions they raced to answer.

But no one could know.

The moral would dive. Everything would take a nosedive. He couldn't (wouldn't) let Voldemort get to his people.

* * *

And Tom Riddle stared into the stone grave of his daughter, Gemma Riddle.

* * *

Well, this was my interlude. Like a peek into everyone's head.

It's short, but at least I updated, right?


	9. THE DEATH OF THE ABBOT SISTERS

AGH!

Thanks for all the reviews, I was on vacation in Italy and couldn't update! Sorry! And my vicious plot bunny attacked me(!), so I might have a LOTR fic up soon, I'm not sure.

And LIFE-SIZED OLIVER GUMMY BEAR TO MY 100TH REVIEWER!

YAY!

Chapter Nine: The Death of the Abbot Sisters

* * *

The day had arrived. The day when, finally, the Golden Trio, Oliver, and Ginny would return to Hogwarts.

Hermione, sitting on her bed, was staring into space, her hand clutching the amulet to her chest. She hadn't breached the topic of the kiss with Ron yet, and she still wasn't sure if she was ever going to work up to the courage to do so.

It was all so complicated. She still wasn't sure if it was an idea or actual Ron that she had fallen for. According to Ginny's sordid teen magazines, one was supposed to fall in love with the little things – the way he tilted his head when he looked at her, or his smile – but the only thing congruous with love was that kiss.

Mmm, that kiss.

Hermione fell back on the thin bed, her eyes closed as she remembered floating in darkness, and then the feeling of softness on her lips, and the jolt of electricity. She smiled a small smile, with her lips turned up in the corners.

She relived it in her mind, rolling into the details until her desire spilled over her lips in little noises. The warm, chocolate eyes were burned to her eyelids, and she imagined the face that surrounded them.

Finally she opened her eyes to find Ron and Harry standing next to her, a pair of concerned, brotherly green eyes and another pair of bright blue.

_Hmm, I thought he had brown eyes_, thought Hermione. _I wonder where I remember those eyes from._

"Are you alright?" asked Harry, worried, jerking Hermione from her musings. His quilt was steadily increasing as the days to September 1st disappeared. Now he was going to Hogwarts, and even there he doubted that she would be safe. After the attack the year before . . . well, no where was fully safe.

"You were making funny noises," added Ron insensitively, and his curious face turned red at the corners as Harry stomped on his foot. Hermione suppressed a laugh at the ridiculous image.

"Just thinking," Hermione replied, smiling. "About the hospital, and things." Ron, being who he was (oblivious) apparently didn't get her hint, and shrugged.

"You want me to take down your trunk?" he asked. Hermione nodded, and Ron picked up her trunk with no apparent difficulty. Hermione hadn't been able to lift a corner without Ginny's help, and she watched appreciatively the biceps flex in Ron's arm as he lifted the load. Perhaps she was in love with the little things?

The siblings let Ron disappear down the stairs before turning to each other. "What were you thinking about, 'Mione?" asked Harry. Hermione knew she couldn't tell him, so simply smiled. Harry was still more of her best friend than her brother, and she felt uncomfortable telling him of her kiss.

"Oh, really just about the hospital." Harry looked like he didn't believe her. They stared at each other for a moment, daring the other to back down.

"Fine," he finally said. "We should head down."

"Yeah," she conceded.

* * *

Oliver stood at the doorway to Ron's room, giving a final glance around to make sure he had not left anything behind.

Wand? Check.

Trunk? Check.

Brain? Check.

_All except my heart_, he thought sadly, but that was with someone else, who, from the sound of it, was downstairs, talking to her brother in Ginny's room.

_I should tell her_, he told himself. But she was in love with Ron.

Even Ron, who was generally out of the loop of things, had realized Hermione was acting differently around him. The other Weasleys had long since noticed and stopped caring.

Perhaps Harry was the only oblivious one left, but that was mainly because of self-preservation. He really didn't want to know that his sister was in love with his best friend.

Oliver imagined the scene in his head when he would tell her. They were alone, on the quidditch field, and Hermione was wearing her school skirt and shirt. It was raining, and the white fabric of the shirt was transparent with the water. She looked up at him, her dark eyes framed by long lashes like the black lace of the dress. . .

NO.

They were in the midst of millions of people, in the Great Hall. It was dinner, and she had been eating with Harry and Ron. Watching her raise the silver fork with a small size of mashed potatoes on it to her mouth, purse her pink lips around the damn lucky utensil, and then repeat the process, he could take it no longer, and rose from his seat at the Head Table, walked down to her seat, grabbed her hand, and led her from the Hall into the empty corridor. . .

No.

They were in the Gryffindor common room after Gryffindor had won yet another quidditch game. She was, as she always was after games, in the corner, nursing a single bottle of butterbeer, smiling at the occasionally passing person who said hello. He slid in next to her, smiling, and told her the truth. That he kissed her. That he loved her.

_What would happen if I told her, and she didn't care?_

**She's Hermione. Of course she'd care.**

_But Hermione is still a girl. _

**And that matters how?**

_Maybe she's going to be a girl before being Hermione._

**That made no sense. **

_And there's always the issue of Harry._

**Who cares about Harry? You're in love with Hermione, not her brother.**

_But Harry's still part of her life._

**Ron is too, but you don't care about that.**

_Of course I do._

**Do you? Do you really?**

He didn't have an answer to that, and quietly closed the door behind him, when all he wanted to do was slam it as hard as he could, and bring the entire Burrow down on the head of the infuriatingly thick youngest Weasley son.

* * *

In Hogwarts Albus Dumbledore sat in his office, filing paperwork, reading bills, and in all looking like the classic boarding school headmaster.

Except, of course, for the pointed hat.

The regular (and therefore, incredibly boring) aspects of Hogwarts life were necessary now. Life was so full of surprises, mostly unpleasant, that Dumbledore was starting to find himself longing for the more menial tasks associated with his position.

He was also finding it harder and harder to keep the truth from his lieutenants. Dumbledore had spent weeks carefully plugging the flow of bad news away from the Order, but the plugs were popping out, and each day he was informed of more and more defeats at the hand of Voldemort.

There was a soft scratch at his window, and Dumbledore sighed, removed his half-moon spectacles, and motioned the owl in the window. The umber-colored creature dropped the day's copy of _The Daily Prophet_ in his lap, and Dumbledore traded a few knuts for the rag.

He scanned the front page, and the news on it shocked him, less for it's contents and more for the fact that he had not yet received the information. It read:

**MUGGLE CAR CRASH KILLS YOUNG HOGWARTS STUDENTS**

London – Last night in lower London, a travesty occurred that would shock the Ministry of Magic and possibly destroy any current moral the Ministry possessed. A family of wizards – Reneé and David Abbot, both 43, and their daughters, Hannah, 18, and Michelle, 13– were traveling across downtown London when Death Eaters appeared and brutally attacked their car, forcing it head-on into the opposing lane of traffic.

According to eye-witness, Oprah Young, "They just appeared out of no where, all black and flappy looking, and they pushed the cars into each other. It was so fast no one could react."

Currently the Ministry has no suspects, and is refusing to reveal their information on whether or not any Muggles where killed in the opposing car. Due to the high profile of the crash, however, Muggles at the scene received a Confounding Spell rather than usual Ministry-procedure Memory Eraser.

Meanwhile, rumors are quickly spreading across the community. Most popular (and perhaps most believable) is that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has taken a special interest in the lives of Hogwarts students following the attack on the wizarding school last June. Both Hannah and Michelle were Hogwarts students, and their parents alumni.

The Minister is asking for "help in catching the individuals responsible for these horrendous acts" and that everyone "stay on guard for possible suspicious person who could be after children."

Dumbledore, aghast, stopped reading. The Abbots? Of all the wizarding families to choose, Voldemort chose the Abbots? Certainly Mr. Abbot had been a member of the Order, and both Hannah and Michelle were DA students, but there was no way that Voldemort could have known that.

* * *

"Bring me my spy," hissed Voldemort happily. The leak within the Order of the Phoenix was proving especially useful. Just think – another set of ugly muggle-loving family members down the drain.

Lucius Malfoy sneered at the cloaked figure who all but sauntered to the throne of Voldemort. No one, other than the Dark Lord himself, knew the identity of the spy. But his information, whoever he was, was good, and that's all that mattered to most of them.

That is, except Lucius Malfoy.

And he wondered, who was the short little man who betrayed his leader for Lord Voldemort? And why?

But, as usual, Lucius and the rest of the Death Eaters were dismissed. They, annoyed, shuffled out in an orderly fashion. Skulking at the end, Peter Pettigrew closed the massive wrought-iron doors that lead to his master's hall.

Perhaps if any of them had lingered, they would have heard the bright voice coming from under the hood – and it's decidedly feminine aspects.

"Are they gone, Voldemort?" purred the voice. A soft, female voice. A woman.

"Yes," he replied. The woman lowered her hood, and her delicate face appeared above it, pale skin lending her face an ethereal look when matched with her silky hair and large eyes. Although Voldemort thought himself above such petty things, he was instinctively proud that this beautiful woman had betrayed the Order to turn to him.

If only he knew her reasoning.

"I have the information you requested," she said, smiling, and with a graceful flick of her wrist, a long list of Order members appeared in his hands, the first five or six with a long, elegant scratch through them. The parchment smelled of her perfume.

"Very good," he purred, and his red eyes lowered a notch to glowing olive. There was a pause, and the chamber was filled with absolute silence. Then: "Why should I trust you?"

"You shouldn't," replied the woman, and she gave him a long look before raising her hood and sweeping from the throne room.

* * *

Well, my SPY has finally shown herself. Who is she? WHAT is she? What are the secrets she has yet to tell? Wait and see . . .

And yes, to all you impatient people, OliverHermione fluff is coming up. As well as some (sorry) HermioneRon fluff. But don't worry, this is still an OliverHermione centric story. THERE WILL BE LOVE, DO NOT WORRY.

And blame the word "umber" on my summer school art teacher. She's obsessed with brown.

PLEASE REVIEW!

Love and such!


	10. PREFECT MEETING

AH! I AM LOVED!

Thanks for all the AMAZING REVIEWS!

YAY!

**AUTHORS NOTE: PLEASE READ!** Okay, I was reading my hits (torturous past time, that) and if you make it to this chapter: PLEASE REVIEW IT! You must like it, if you're reading this far. Even if you don't. PLEASE. Just so you know – I WILL NOT be following all of HBP. It doesn't really suit my story plot. So if things don't really fit with book six, don't sue me. And to the whole issue of Hermione's birthday: Oh, well, those things can't be changed. Maybe Dumbledore gave them a birthday to avoid suspicion. I'll try to work it in.

Chapter Ten: Prefect Meeting

* * *

The Ministry car, a putrid grayish-red color, deposited the children at King's Cross. There, Tonks, Lupin, and Moody waited. Mr and Mrs Weasley were going onto St. Mungo's to visit the injured Abbots, and console them about their lost children.

The two Aurors and the werewolf ducked through the rain. Or, more precisely, the couple ducked and Moody strode through as though he owned the rain.

Tonks, who had pale blue hair that matched the sapphire on her engagement ring, hugged Hermione excitedly. She almost head-butted Hermione in her excitement, and Moody succumbed only to a gruff pat for the three. Lupin had a sickly smile, and he avoided touching anyone. With the full moon so soon, he needed to be careful.

The group made it through the station and onto the platform without much trouble, except when Tonks knocked over someone's baggage carousel, and managed to almost set him on fire as he hastily put out his cigarette.

With three whooshes the Trio was through the barrier, onto the platform next to the huffing and puffing scarlet Hogwarts Express. For some reason the gilt gold lining the windows seemed duller, and the scarlet had lost some of it's reddish gleam.

Harry, Ron and Hermione waved from the window as the Hogwarts Express pulled away from the station, and then hurried to find an empty compartment. Hermione and Ron would have to leave Harry behind to find the prefect's meeting, but he was a better sport of it than usual.

Hermione had a sneaking suspicion that it had something to do with the fact that Ginny was there.

Hermione pulled Ron behind her as they pushed their way to the front prefect's compartment, Hermione thrilling in the simple sensation of holding his hand. Finally they found the curtained carriage, and Hermione pushed through first.

Malfoy stood on the other side, a gleaming Head Boy's badge stuck to the right breast of his school shirt. He took one look at Hermione's identical badge and turned away, swearing violently under his breath.

"Hermione?" was the similar name on everyone's lips, and she blushed from the bottom of her toes to the top of her head, a bright red color that matched her highlights.

"Miss Granger, if you would please take a seat," choked out McGonagall, who, even though she knew of Hermione's physical transformation, looked like she had swallowed her tongue.

"It's Potter now," reminded a soft voice, and Hermione found herself looking into the warm brown eyes of Oliver Wood, who she could have sworn had Flooed to Hogwarts the night before. For a moment, she thought his eyes looked very familiar, and she found herself falling into his arms – literally, as Ron burst into the compartment.

There was a moment of awkward silence, as Hermione disentangled herself from the long – and very fit – limbs of the new quidditch coach. Any thought she had previously of his eyes were forgotten.

Finally, amid snickers from the Slytherins, Hermione sat on the seat next to (but as far away as she could from) Malfoy. McGonagall nodded Ron to his seat between the other Gryffindor prefects and the empty seat next to Oliver.

For a moment, Hermione wondered what he was doing there. But then McGonagall began to speak.

"Professor Wood is here for the beginning of the meeting because the Headmaster would like to place new patrols around the quidditch field, and the professor will give his keys to whomever picked the field as their patrol."

That explanation hardly satisfied Hermione, who knew that Oliver could have quite easily given a spare to McGonagall and from her to the student. But she drew her mind away from the uncertain topic to help run the meeting.

When it finally began to draw to a close, Hermione considered it a great success. She had only stepped on Malfoy three times ("Accidentally, of course, Professor McGonagall."), and he had only made two references to her newfound identity ("Just slips, professor."), and when McGonagall pulled out the hat with the slips of patrols on it, Hermione was certain she would get the Gryffindor patrol.

Head Boy and Head Girl picked first, and after Malfoy withdrew the kitchens and Great and Entrance halls, Hermione reached her hand in, and happily pulled out her slip. As McGonagall passed the hat to the next prefect, Hermione unfolded:

_Lake, perimeter of the Forbidden Forest, and quidditch fields._

She looked up to see Oliver's strangely familiar brown eyes staring at her, and he quickly averted them. There was an empty seat next to him, and she moved across the spacious compartment to slide next to him on the red velvet seat.

"I got the quidditch fields," she told him, and he took out his key ring and gave her two keys – one gold and one silver.

"The gold one is for the changing rooms, and opens all the lockers inside," he told her, brushing the tip of her fist with his fingers as he motioned to it. His accent was soft enough that she was having trouble distinguishing the words.

"And the silver?" she asked, certainly her words would come out strangled and breathy, but actually were smooth and under control.

"The broom shed."

"Ah. I presume your balls are in the shed?"

"Pardon?"

"The quidditch balls. Are they in the broom shed?"

"Oh. Yes."

"Good," replied Hermione, and she smiled before slipping out after Ron into the crowded corridors of the carriage. Rain slapped the windows with tiny balls of hail. Hermione wondered for a moment at the confusion over her words, before realizing the double innuendo and blushing furiously.

She was still red when she arrived to the compartment that housed Ginny, Harry and Luna, and when Ginny asked what was wrong, Hermione hastily whispered it under her breath. To her surprise, Ginny began to laugh.

"You said that?" she asked, choking as she tried to keep down her laughter.

"Yes," replied Hermione, becoming annoyed. It wasn't that embarrassing.

"Oh, poor Hermione . . ." she trailed off, still breaking off into the occasional giggle. Harry was watching them, confused, but he eventually wrote it off as a girl thing, and forgot about it as he settled into a violent game of Exploding Snap with Ron.

* * *

Oliver sat composed until everyone had left, before letting his head drop into his hands. It was so infuriating – having her have no idea who he really was – and she had been so close right then – next to him, radiant and smiling, and want to kill Ron really badly . . .

But he had been fine at first, and when he brushed her fist clutching his keys, the skin felt smooth against his calloused fingertips. Most of the women he'd dated had been on the quidditch team, and had large hands, just as calloused and rough as his own. He wasn't used to small, delicate fingers.

And then the innuendo.

Oliver was sure that his face had turned a few unknown shades of violet and magenta when the words had come, unembarrassed, from her lips. She hadn't even noticed anything wrong with her statement.

"Oh, Merlin's balls," he muttered. "I don't think I can do this."

An entire school year, with her close by him. Screaming herself hoarse during quidditch. Sitting, laughingly, with Harry's head in her lap next to Ron on the grass by the lake. Ramrod tall during lessons, waving her hand in the air with the aura that only those of great genius assume.

And she would be patrolling right by his rooms, every night, checking the changing rooms, and the pitch, and that God forsaken broom shed.

Perhaps he would ask for a room transfer.

Or perhaps he wouldn't.

* * *

_She sat across from him, her mulberry curls whirling around her head in a haze of light and color. Her golden eyes, such a strange color, stared at him._

"_You want me to marry you?" she asked, and her voice had no trace of scorn. She was surprised by his offer. "Me?"_

"_Yes," he breathed, glad that he had finally worked up the courage to talk to her. Lord he may have been of his own keep, but outside she ruled everything._

"_But why me?" she asked. The girl lacked such confidence in her looks that she was sure he would have chosen someone else._

"_Because I love you."_

_A pause._

"_You love me?"_

"_Yes. Do you love me?"_

"_Always," she whispered, and leaned across the table to capture his lips with her own. The dark hair brushed his cheek, and he wove his fingers in it, and pulled her closer, and when she opened her mouth, he used the chance to dip deeper._

_Suddenly she pulled away, lips swollen, eyes angry. _

_Wait. This isn't how it happened._

"_You killed me." **No!** _

"_I loved you, and you lied and said you loved me back." **I did! I swear I did!**_

"_You took my daughter away from me." **I never took her away. You left.**_

"_My death pushed me away." **You pulled yourself away.** He was angry now. It was all her fault, not his._

"_YOUR FAULT. YOU KILLED ME, AND YOU KILLED YOUR DAUGHTER WITHOUT A THOUGHT TO US. YOUR AMBITION WILL KILL YOU. LOVE MAY BREED WEAKNESS, BUT IT GIVES YOU SOMETHING TO FIGHT FOR. WHAT ARE YOU FIGHTING FOR?"_

Voldemort woke with a gasp, and he saw stars for a moment before his vision cleared, and the richly decorated bedroom swam into view. The mahogany furniture was polished until it gleamed, and the black marble fireplace still bore the stain of ink from his anger.

Voldemort leaned back on the silk pillows, his whole body slick with sweat. The sheets were ruined.

For a moment, he stared at the silver hangings above his head. The room was an exhibit of good taste and good furniture.

The wine in the elegantly etched crystal decanter on the side table was blood red and a fine vintage.

His windows showed a beautiful view of the ocean and mountains behind it.

The room was perfect.

But except for him, it was empty.

* * *

AWW! Voldie's got a HEART!

Don't worry, it won't last.

Anyway, LOVE and SUCH, but PLEASE REVIEW!


	11. FLYING

HEEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHE

Who is the update goddess?

You know my name, people.

Ugh, sorry it took so long. I would have put it up over the weekend but my family came to visit . . . and well . . .

Let's just say, my family is complicated. I have one aunt who has depression, and another who wants to control everything.

Yea gods, my family reunions suck.

But . . . new chapter! Rejoice!

Ooh, and I updated The Huntress. So read and review that too!

Chapter Eleven: Flying

* * *

The spy of Voldemort stood in her compartment of the Hogwarts Express. Her friends, all powerful wizards and witches, were laughing, talking, and playing Exploding Snap. She was pretending to read.

Shewas part oftheir group.

But at the same time, she was apart from them.

Spying for Voldemort hadn't been her original task. Originally she'd just been the secret love of a Death Eater. But then the opportunity had arisen.

She'd done it for Him. For her love. Sometimes it seemed that her plan was working – He'd catch her as she was leaving the Dark Lord's chambers, and spin her in His arms, kissing her furiously.

And other times He ignored her, didn't wait for her outside. Once (only once) in desperation He asked her why she was doing it – why she was betraying Potty and Weasel. Why she was doing all of this.

"Do you trust me?" she asked.

"Of course," He replied, confused. He'd kissed her softly.

"That's why."

And there was no more discussion on the matter.

Eventually she would have to tell them. Break down, and tell them that she was the person responsible for the Abbot deaths, and the other Order members. They would start hating her then.

They never really trusted her anyway.

* * *

Harry watched Hermione and Ginny giggle behind the magazine with a mixture of wanting and love. Love for his sister – and love for Ron's sister. He loved her. And she loved him too. He was sure of it. Their dating the year before had proved it to him. If only she listened . . .

But she continued to ignore him. He had worried for her, and in return she pretended to bury any feeling she had for him.

Pretended, he hoped, because if she had really lost them, then he was in trouble. He was having a hard time forgetting her.

Right then, he was remembering the feel of her petite frame against his sturdier one. Where were they, near the lake? The imprint inflamed against his skin, even as she sat across from him, laughing with Hermione over something in a magazine.

_Ginny, Ginny, Ginny,_ he thought._ Ginny, Ginny, Ginny._

She had to hear his thoughts. She _had _to.

She didn't.

"Harry?" she breathed, looking across from him. With a start, Harry realized that he had been staring at her. "Are you all right?" It was his turn at Exploding Snap. Ron was staring at him with raised eyebrows. Ginny and Hermione had worry in their eyes. He turned away.

"Fine," he replied, and threw down a king, which promptly exploded. Ron's eyebrows disappeared in the force of the explosion. The group paused for a moment before dissolving into boisterous laughter, Luna included. Hers seemed a little forced, however.

Hermione, still shaking with silent laughter, took out her wand and grew them back.

"You should have made them bushier," Ginny told her, "as punishment for stupidity." The two retreated into the magazine again. Hermione's wand twitched. Luna, who was next to them, but reading _The Quibbler_, made a little sniffing noise.

"When eyebrows explode off in Exploding Snap, they go into the Sahara Desert and become Snuffling Exploding Hedgehogs," she told the compartment in general. Harry and Ron exchanged a glance of suffering grace, and returned to their game, Ron wriggling his new eyebrows experimentally.

* * *

Behind the magazine, Ginny and Hermione weren't actually reading. In fact, if Ron or Harry took the time to notice, they would have realized that the two were still reading the first-page ad for Madame Junkly's Amazing Acne Remover.

"Continue!" hissed Ginny, and Hermione tapped the magazine, using it as a Silencing Ward.

"So he taps the top of the keys, and tells me the golden one is for changing rooms, and the silver one is for the broom shed. Then . . ." Hermione trailed off for a moment, remembering the color Oliver's face had turned with her next statement.

Most would have found the color a little, well, unattractive. But Hermione thought that his brown eyes stood out with the magenta color. Those chocolate eyes. So familiar. Where, where had she seen them!

"Hermione!" said Ginny, poking her in the side with her finger. Hermione shook her head for a moment to shake the cobwebs. She hadn't seen Oliver since third year. She'd had plenty of time to forget where she'd seen his eyes, so it shouldn't have come up then.

_Oh, god, confusing sentence,_ she thought, her head pounding.

"And then I said, oh god, I can't believe I said this: I presume your balls are in the shed?" murmured Hermione, turning red at just the thought of it. Her voice had lowered in volume until it became a whisper.

Ginny began to laugh again the magazine twitching violently, and Hermione self-righteously hit her.

"Prat," she said. Ginny shook her head.

"Prat-ette to you," she replied, and smiled. When Ginny smiled, she began to glow, her skin all pearly, and her eyes shining. No denying it, Ginny was a beautiful girl. Hermione had always harbored a jealously of Ginny. After a while, though, it became habit. Ron was brawn, Hermione was brains, and Harry and Ginny were the beauty. It was all terribly cliche.

"So," said Ginny, "what happened after that?" The magazine was steady again.

But before Hermione could reply the doors slid open to reveal:

Malfoy.

"Oh, gods," muttered Hermione, and removed the Silencing Ward.

"Ten points from Gryffindor, Weasel, for sitting in the presence of your betters," sneered Malfoy. Hermione sighed, closed the magazine and put it on the seat next to her. Her wand twitched into her fingers.

"This is really getting old, Malfoy. Can you come up with some better insults, or was that one the only one in your . . . witty . . . repertoire?" she asked. The space was perfectly timed. Everyone except Luna sniggered. Looney Lovegood was watching Malfoy with some interest.

"Oh, I'm so scared of the new Potter brat," he said, and the two gorillas at his back snickered unconvincingly.

"Don't worry about it," replied Hermione, "Everyone's scared of some things. No shame in admitting it."

"Come now, Potty, not letting the little sister kill me all by herself, are you?" asked Malfoy, turning to the easier one to goad.

"When she's doing such a beautiful job? Of course not," Harry said, smiling at the look of shock that flittered across Malfoy's face before the cool mask was settled back.

"Where were we?" asked Hermione. "Oh, yes, you were leaving." Smiling, she flicked her wand, and the compartment door slammed such, right into the left side of Malfoy's face. He stumbled back, and the door slid shut, and locked with a click.

"That's going to leave a bruise," snicked Harry. Ginny giggled behind her hand and the two exchanged a Look.

"Good timing, Hermione," said Ron, and slapped her on the back. Hermione oomphed with the force of the pat, but managed to hold onto her seat.

"Looks like the castle is coming up," said Luna, who had been the only one watching the window. Through the howling wind, the rest of the group could see the towering castle drowned in clouds and precipitation.

* * *

The boys were kicked out so the girls could changed, and finally, in pouring rain, the train pulled up to Hogsmeade Station.

Hermione waved good-bye to her friends, and under the needles of cold rain, she pointed the second years to the carriages, drawn this year by creatures that were visible to her. Hermione ignored the phenomenon for a moment, and pointed a gaggle of first years to Hagrid, whose waving was exaggerated, but shouts were lost in the roar of the rain.

She shivered at the droplets hitting the back of her neck like needles, and took it down from her ponytail to protect it. Her shirt, skirt, and robes clung to her more than she liked, but she tried to ignore it.

By the time she had extracted a poor third year from a group of fifth year Slytherins, the carriages were all moving up to the castle. With a sigh, Hermione resigned herself to a long walk up to Hogwarts. She pulled the robes around her, and was about to step into the mud . . .

"Do you need a ride?" asked a now-familiar burr behind her, and Hermione turned to find herself looking into the chest of the new quidditch coach. Very well defined, very visible in the transparent shirt, chest. She looked up into the face of Oliver, whose brown hair was plastered to his head.

"What? No one can App –" she said, and then noticed the broom in his left hand. "No, no, I don't ride," she replied, then repeated the message. She cut it off halfway during the third repetition because three times would have not only been pathetic, but rambling.

"Why not?" he asked, and smiled. It lit up his whole face, and Hermione realized that he became very attractive when he smiled. Actually, he was becoming rather attractive no matter what his face looked like, but she didn't remark on that.

"Because I'm afraid of heights," said Hermione, and it felt okay to tell Oliver the secret that even though Harry and Ron didn't know. She didn't have time to wonder at the phenomena because she couldn't feel her fingers.

"Don't worry, I won't let you fall," said Oliver, and before she could stop him, she was sitting in front of him on the broom.

"Oh god," muttered Hermione, and covered her eyes with her hands as the ground disappeared from under her feet. She tried to focus on something other than the feeling of her stomach rising up to take the place of her brain. Something else.

Anything else.

So she found that there was a warmth spreading across her shoulders. Then down her back, and slightly down her arms.

She reveled in it for a few moments, before realizing that the points of heat were wherever Oliver was touching her. The heat didn't feel wrong, or uncomfortable. So Hermione opened her eyes.

And what she saw (i.e. fifty feet of open air below her) caused her to let out a little squeak, and start to slip over the side of the broom. A scream was about to tear it's way out of her throat when she was settled.

"Whoa," said Oliver, and wrapped his left arm around her waist, and pulled her back on the broom, flush against his body. The heat spread farther, and Hermione didn't really notice that Oliver didn't let go of her.

Finally he began to lower the broom, and when they landed on the steps of the front entrance, they were pulled apart by the flow of students from the carriages, which had just arrived. Hermione yelled a thanks, but she wasn't sure that he heard her.

For a few seconds she tried to push against the tide of students, but it was useless.

Eventually she turned back to the school, and tried to find her friends in the crush of students.

* * *

Oliver could still feel her body against his as he sent his broom to his rooms. Dammit, this wasn't going to be easy.

He took in a few deep breaths to steady his heart rate, and stripped off the dripping robes. His white shirt underneath was also soaked, and he dried it off with a wave of his wand. He missed the admiring glances of some of the female students at his strong biceps and stomach muscles that the wet, clingy shirt revealed.

Then he slipped back on the dry robe, and passed through the students into the Great Hall. The Sorting Feast was about to begin.

And goddammit, he'd missed this place.

* * *

AHHHHH! NEW UPDATE!

Okay, I would appreciate REVIEWS, if that's alright with you people.


	12. THE SORTING FEAST

HAHAHAHAHAHA!

New chapter!

I wrote this while watching Lara Croft: Tomb Raider, on TBS, and I'm sorry about any inconsistencies.

BTW: I have a completely blank, and CAN'T remember the animal of Hufflepuff. If anyone could help . . .

Chapter Twelve: The Sorting Feast

* * *

As Hermione settled into her seat next to Harry and across from Ron, Professor McGonagall set the familiar three-legged stool and worn hat in the center of the hall.

The Sorting Hat opened it's mouth-flap, but for a minute or so it was silent. Then words began to tumble forth, as if thought of one-by-one, with no recognizable melody. Each line was punctuated by a harsh accent as the Sorting Song echoed through a silence thicker (and harder) than Mrs. Weasley's fruit cake.

_Hogwarts School has many a hall_

_They welcome students one and all_

_Lessons learned and awe inspired_

_Great events have here transpired._

_Me the hat hath listened long_

_And transformed my message into song_

_Bespoken with haste my verses are_

_But their words heard close and far._

_Founders from past and present speak_

_Their warnings of havoc soon to wreak_

_Are spelled through me to students here_

_So for these moments give me your ear._

_Kind Hufflepuff never knew_

_Of the grace her house hath grew_

_In it lurks the power unknown_

_Come forth bearer and power shone._

_In Gryffindor bravery rises_

_A new daughter found within false disguises_

_The sword will come to those to be found_

_Worthy and with knowledge sound._

_Ravenclaw possesses _

_In her house a thousand guesses_

_And for those answers there must be_

_A question to be asked of thee._

_Cunning Slytherin has burrowed deep_

_In another house a spy that'll reap_

_Glory and blood that follows her so_

_As she ravages all goodness will grow._

_But ages ago these magical beings_

_Vested much in the power of seeings_

_So in a false message do seek lies_

_It is lost beneath the perilous ties_

_That must bind the separate _

_And appease the desperate._

For the first time, the Sorting Hat's song was met with silence. Although no one spoke of it, all eyes turned to Hermione. "A new daughter found within false disguises"? The Hat had never openly mentioned a student before.

The nervous first years trembled at the looks shooting around the Hall. Hermione's face was bright red, but she began scribbling on a piece of paper with a small quill the words of the Sorting Song.

As single clap rang through the hall.

Dumbledore stood, his purple robes sparkling and beard slightly more brushed than usual, and his hands moved together again. Hagrid was the first to pick up the sound, and the Golden Trio soon followed.

A loud, if somewhat delayed, applause swept through the tables, and the silent Slytherins very obvious in the wave that swirled around them.

"Welcome students!" said Dumbledore, and the applause ended abruptly.

"We begin this year on a note of sadness, at the deaths of Hannah and Michelle Abbot," he continued, gesturing a gnarled hand at the banner of black hanging over the Hufflepuff table. The Abbot sisters had been in the same house. "However, the school will not break. Lord Voldemort has ruthlessly murdered two of Hogwarts' prize students in an attempt to press this school and it's inhabitants into submission. It will not work! Hogwarts is strong!" Harry and Ron whooped enthusiastically, and they were joined by a handful of Gryffindors and Ravenclaws.

"On a lighter note, Mr. Filch asked me to remind students that fireworks are not allowed within 10 meters of the owlrey, and if anyone violates this rule, they will be cleaning it until Christmas. But before anyone sets off to scare the owls – we have first years to sort, do we not, Professor McGonagall?"

The cowering group, which numbered around five less than the year before, straightened out into something raggedly resembling a line. Professor McGonagall read out the first name as Hermione spread out her rapid notes of the Sorting Song on the table.

"Oh, Hermione, can we not think before we eat?" groaned Ron and his stomach simultaneously. Hermione shot him a look of venom, and slammed her fist on the table.

"Ron! More things matter than your stomach!" A few students surrounding them shot her a nasty looks, and she lowered her voice. "The Sorting Hat warned us before to unite houses – now it's talking about spies, intrigue and everything necessary for a Nancy Drew novel!" She ignored Ron's half-muttered question ("Who the bloody hell is Nancy Drew?") and turned the paper so both he and Harry could see her neatly scribbled notes.

"There's obviously a Slytherin spy in one of the other three houses . . . Hufflepuff's heir must be attending Hogwarts now . . . Maybe the sword of Gryffindor – "

"I know what that is," cut in Harry. "I pulled it out of the Sorting Hat second year. It's stashed in Dumbledore's office now." Hermione's mouth formed a little 'O' and she hastily wrote something next to the line about a sword.

"Perfect," she said, but before they could continue the food appeared. Ron immediately dove for a plate of fried chicken, and Hermione removed her notes before they were splattered with barbeque sauce. Muttering about barbarians, she calmly scooped some mashed potatoes onto her plate.

They chattered about the DA and the possibility of setting fireworks off in front of the owlrey, all carefully avoiding three topics: Hermione's new identity, the Sorting Song, and Oliver Wood. Alright, so neither Hermione's brother nor Ron knew about the third topic. But Hermione knew that she wouldn't allow him to be brought up.

Something happened to her when she talked to him – something that needed analyzing and experimentation before she could discuss it. Hermione was logical to a fault, and her feelings about Oliver Wood were anything but logical.

In fact, they bordered on fantasy. Hermione couldn't remember the last time she had felt like she did around Oliver Wood. She had come close during DADA in second year, with Lockhart, but the loss of words, quick blushing, and pounding blood were a new phenomenon.

_I really like Ron,_ she tried to remind herself._ What about the fan-bloody-tastic kiss at St. Mungo's? I'm going bloody marry the bloke who gave me that – and it's Ron. He's just too embarrassed to admit it. Ron's mouth and brain work on separate levels – he doesn't know how to tell me._

_Really._

" – Hermione?" asked Harry, concerned. Hermione jerked her head up, and realized a little belatedly that she had been staring at her small mound of mashed potatoes for quite some time.

"I'm sorry, Harry. What did you ask?" she said, shaking her head to clear the metaphorical cobwebs. _Don't even think the words Oliver Wood for the next few weeks,_ she chastised herself.

"I asked if all you're going to eat are those potatoes. You really shouldn't starve yourself." He grabbed a rib from Ron's plate, and ignoring his best friend's objections, placed it in front of Hermione. She forced a smile, picked up her fork and pointedly ate a small amount of mashed potatoes.

Swallowing, she asked, "Happy?" and although Harry didn't seem to be, he nodded.

"Don't worry so much about me," she said, and patted his arm. Then she asked, "So, what do you all think of the mysterious DADA teacher that's sitting next to Ol– Hagrid. Dumbledore hasn't named her."

They all turned to look at the black-haired woman. Her short hair was cut in a bob that angled downward in the front. Her searing green eyes were looking directly into her plate. A pale hand methodically scooped up a little rice, ate, and repeated the gesture. Although none of the trio could place it, all three silently felt that there was something familiar about her.

* * *

Oliver Wood, sitting next to the small woman, was feeling the same strange sensation.

She looked to be about thirty-five, and yet wasn't any taller than Oliver's fifth year sister, who was in Hufflepuff.

"Hello," he finally said, and the woman looked up guiltily. Her eyes immediately reminded him of Harry's. The shade of emerald was identical. But beneath the familiar color was a hint of something darker.

"Oh," she said, startled. "Hello."

"Are, are you here to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts?" he finally asked. At the teachers meeting the day before, the DADA position had seemed empty. Dumbledore had pointedly avoided the not-so-subtle queries ("Headmaster, have you found a replacement for Professor Slughorn?") as to who held the jinxed office.

"Yes, yes I am," she replied after a pause. "Oh! I'm Vallory Every." She dropped the fork, and pushed her left hand at him. The right lay securely in her lap.

"Oliver Wood, flying coach," he said, and shook her hand. She flashed him a brilliant, but nevertheless fake, smile.

"I've heard that there's something of a curse on my position," Vallory said, and ate another forkful of rice. The grain was the only food on her plate. The entire golden plate in front of her was white with rice.

"Did you not go to Hogwarts?" asked Oliver.

"Oh goodness, no," she exclaimed around a bite of rice. "I went to Beauxbatons. I grew up in Dijon, with my brother. Did you go here?" Her eyes were bright.

"Yes," he said slowly. "I graduated three years ago."

"Really? You're terribly young to be teaching flying." After her rude words, Vallory blushed. "Oh, how rude of me!"

"Nonsense. It's quite alright. Actually, for the last three years I've been playing for Puddlemere United. But after Madame Hooch retired, Dumbledore offered me the position while they look for a permanent replacement. Puddlemere's taking something of a break for a season."

Vallory raised an eyebrow. "I don't really know anything about quidditch, but even I know that taking a season off is unheard of."

"Well, don't tell anyone I told you this, but the team's changing owners, and no one's buying. See, the old owner died, and they have no idea what to do with it." Vallory laughed delightedly, and scooped up more rice.

Following her example, Oliver took a bite of his corn. They chattered more about quidditch, and Oliver found himself giving her a diagram of the Wronsky Feint.

As Vallory told him about a game her brother had played once, Oliver's eyes wandered to the Gryffindor's table. Hermione was staring directly at the head table.

Actually, she was staring at one person – Vallory Every. Her brow was knit in thought, and her fork missed her mouth more than once as she gazed at the new DADA professor. She wiggled her nose for a second, then bit her lip. Finally she turned to her brother, and whispered something in his ear.

He nodded, and turned to her in exclamation.

She leaned across the table, her hair almost slipping into the barbeque sauce slathered on the uneaten rib on her plate, and whispered excitedly to Ron. He started motioning at her, and she shook her head.

"RON!" she screached, and even Oliver heard her. A few disgruntled housemates grumbled at her, and she lowered to voice to whisper haughtily to the Weasley across from her.

"And we ended up winning the game," completed Vallory, and laughed. Oliver joined in, although he had no idea what she had been talking about.

"You have no idea what I was talking about, do you?" she asked suddenly, and caught off guard, Oliver nodded. Then caught himself.

"I mean, sure I do," he said quickly, she had shrugged away his comment.

"It's alright. Though I did notice who you were staring at." She motioned her fork, for once empty of the white grain, at the trio sitting at the Gryffindor table.

"That's Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, and . . . who's the third one?"

"Hermione Potter," filled in Oliver, his eyes refocused on Hermione. He missed the look on Vallory's face, or else it would have warned him of future events.

"Hm . . . I could have sworn that I read her name was Hermione Granger," said Vallory pointedly.

"It was," replied Oliver carelessly. "But it turns out she's the sister of Harry Potter."

"Oh," said Vallory, and began eating her rice again.

As Oliver continued eating and staring, she unfolded the newspaper article clutched in her right hand.

She smoothed it out as she took a sip of water in her goblet.

**OTHER POTTER CHILD FOUND:**

**A _DAILY PROPHET EXCLUSIVE_**

_Hmm,_ Vallory thought. _Interesting.

* * *

_

"Ms. Potter," called out Dumbledore, appearing behind her. "If you would please follow me to your head dormitories . . ." The Headmaster's blue eyes sparkled with suppressed mirth at the look of disgust that passed between his Head Girl and Boy.

"I have to share a dormitory with her?" asked Malfoy, his voice scoffing.

"Honestly, Malfoy," said Hermione, and she rolled her eyes. Harry and Ron flanked her, slightly behind.

"Should we go, 'Mione?" asked Ron. She nodded, and they warily left, shooting looks over their shoulders. Malfoy crossed his arms, and tapped his foot pointedly.

"The distressed housewife image works wonderfully for you, Malfoy. You should try it more often," snapped Hermione irritably.

"Glad to know that you find those you above you attractive. Sorry you can't ever have this," replied Malfoy immediately.

"This being a frumpy, ferrety arsehole who doesn't know a broom from his wand? I think I'll pass," shot out Hermione.

"Well, Ms. Potter, Mr. Malfoy, shall I show you to your new quarters?" requested Dumbledore, and he swept out of the hall. Hermione followed him first, and ignored the middle finger pointed behind her back by Malfoy.

The walk to the Head rooms was silent. Hermione carefully observed the way. Eventually she gave up, and watched the portraits fall away. They dwindled, one by one, until a single portrait graced each wall. And then none.

The cold stone walls were, perhaps, the only empty corridors in the entire castle.

Dumbledore suddenly turned a corner, and a huge portrait of four animals framed in gold stood at the dead end.

As they approached, the lion stretched and stood. As the largest animal, it dominated the frame. Each animal was life-sized, and the golden mane was at least a foot long. A soft purr emerged from it's golden throat.

The animals of Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw remained sleeping, curled up separately.

At the sight of the stirring snake, however, Hermione froze. From far away, the lion had seemed to be the largest animal, but now up close, Hermione realized the creature of Slytherin to be a basilisk. The golden eyes thrust her into a memory of staring at those eyes in a mirror before she had been Petrified. It was blood red, and coiled demurrely at the bottom of the portrait.

"Scared, Potter?" hissed Malfoy as he passed around her, his mouth close to her ear. His breath sweptonto her throatand down her spine, raising hairs she didn't know she had.She was too frozen to respond. Dumbledore turned to look at the two, and his eyes lost a little of their sparkle.

Behind him, the snake whispered at Hermione, "Wonderful to sssssssee you again, my dear." It opened it's fanged mouth in a parody of a smile, and the teeth were as long as her forearm. The noise that emerged was a cross between a hiss and one of Neville's potions exploding. But instead of being comical, it was frightening.

"It can talk?" squeaked Hermione. She swallowed rapidly in an attempt to soothe her voicebox.

"We all can, child," said the lion, and his voice was deep and strong. With a paw the size of a chicken, he slapped the basilisk on the head. It hissed, but otherwise didn't respond.

"How?" she asked, and her brow furrowed. _Hogwarts, A History_ had never mentioned the Head dormitories, let alone the portrait guarding it.

"We, my dear, are the ssssoulsss and heartssss of the founderssss," said the snake, voice less taunting after the lion's pat.

"Really?" she asked, and her terror was lost at the idea of new information. "Fascinating." The lion laughed, and his was deep and soulful. Surely what Godric Gryffindor had sounded like. Dumbledore's concern vanished, and he stepped forward.

"Press this," he said, and pressed an almost invisible garnet in the frame on the left side, "and say, I am a daughter, or son" – nodding in Malfoy's direction – "of Hogwarts school." At his words, the large portrait dissolved, and through the empty frame a large room appeared.

Malfoy entered first, and Dumbledore ushered Hermione afterwards.

A large black marble fireplace dominated the opposite wall. The room was decorated in gold, silver, green, and scarlet, with drapes, tables, couches, and chairs. Over the mantle was a muggle painting of the four founders, frozen with stern smiles and laughing eyes. The room was larger than the Gryffindor common room, and thus just a tiny bit colder. Hermione missed the laughing second and thirdyears, and her familiar chair by the fireplace.

To the right was a mahogany stair case that rose in a single row, only to split into two halfway to the second floor. There, one led to a door with a silver nameplate, and the other to one with gold. They were connected with a hallway, and a single door whichhad tosignify the bathroom.

"Oh, it's gorgeous," breathed Hermione, forgetting Malfoy for a moment. The common room was huge. Large enough that surely she wouldn't have to spend much time with him.

"Humph," snorted Malfoy, and disappeared up the stairs to his room. Once the door slammed, Dumbledore turned to Hermione.

"I know that your new identity might have some difficulties for you, so if you need to talk about it, my office door is always open. The password is Cinnamon Rush."

"Thank you, headmaster," said Hermione, and with a small smile and a twinkle of his eyes Dumbledore left. The portrait closed behind him, and a drapery fell to cover the black hole.

With a sigh, Hermione tiredly stepped up the stairs into her new room.

* * *

Ooooooooooohhhhhhhhhh . . . . . . . . .

Whatever shall I do with the Sorting Song? Who is the heir of Hufflepuff?

Hmmm?

If you want to find out . . . . REVIEW! BTW: OliverHermione fluff next chapter! But only if I get reviews!


	13. ROUNDS

Sorry it took so long! I was dissatisfied with the last part, so of course I had to write the whole chapter over again.

Well, read and enjoy. A lot of sweat, tears, and snow day-time went into this.

Chapter Thirteen: Rounds

* * *

DING DONG DANG DONG DING DING DANG DONG

Hermione peeled the scarlet comforter off her head with a shriek similar to a herd of charging hippogryffs.

DING DONG DANG DONG DING DING DANG DONG

"_Stupefy_," mumbled Hermione half-heartedly, and the buzzing red alarm clock toppled off the bedside table. It hit the ground with a thud, then continued it's racket.

DING DONG DANG –

The alarm clock exploded int bits of red metal and magical screws.

Hermione eyed the scorch mark, and with a satisfied 'hmph', pointed her wand at all that remained of the offending machine. "_Scourgify_."

Contrary to popular belief, Hermione was not a morning person.

* * *

When Hermione finally dragged herself down to breakfast, she found her best friends chewing oatmeal and toast, tying their shoelaces and exclaiming over their schedules.

"Bloody effing hell, we have Snape at **seven **in thebloody morning?" yelled Ron. Hermione slid into her seat next to Harry, and leaned across the table to smack Ron on the head.

"Don't swear, Ron," she told him, and picked a blueberry bagel off the plate in front of her. She toasted it with her wand, and looked around for the butter.

"'Don't swear Ron', she says. Weren't you screechin' a few unmentionables this summer?" demanded Ron. His ears were already turning their tell-tale red.

"Hmm? Oh, Ron, you have a spot of marmalade, right here," replied Hermione, pointing to the left of her nose. Anger forgotten, Ron rubbed at his cheek.

"Hello, Ronald. Harry, Hermione," said a detached, dreamy voice behind them. Hermione turned to see Luna there, a strange smile on her face. When she returned to her bagel, Ron was pink, muttering something.

There was silence for a while as the Trio looked over their schedules.

"You know what," said Harry, and Hermione raised her head. "If Cedric hadn't died, the Triwizard Tournament would be going on right now." Hermione shook her head rapidly, and swallowed the piece of bagel in her throat.

"It is happening. But out of respect for Cedric, Hogwarts isn't participating. I think they asked a Spanish school."

Silence reigned again, and because of it, the mutters around the tables could be better understood.

"_Is that Hermione Granger?"_

"_Hermione Potter now, you know."_

"_Really?"_

"_Who's the hot chick next to Potter?"_

"_His sister. Hermione Granger?"_

"_You're fucking with me. There's no way SHE could be Hermione Granger."_

"_No. Hermione Potter now."_

"_You sure that's Hermione Granger?"_

"_Yeah."_

"_Jesus, the Potter family multiplies like frickin' rabbits."_

"_Look at the pair of ti–"_

"_Shut. Up. There's no WAY that could be that BITCH Granger."_

"Yes! I was formerly Hermione Granger, I am now Hermione Potter. Yes, I used to be frumpy. Yes, this is how I really look," Hermione had whirled around angrily, and shouted her statements to the entire Great Hall. There's was stunned silence as she grabbed her bag and stormed out.

Whispers followed her.

"_What a bitch."_

"_OMG, could you believe her?"_

"_The nerve."_

_

* * *

_

The Slytherin and Gryffindor first years, a group numbering at about twenty-five, were waiting for their flying instructor.

And, as expected, they filled up their spare time with what eleven-year-olds are aught to do.

"OI! Marberry! Fancy a snog?"

"With YOU, Inkleman? I'd sooner marry a pig."

"With that nose, your mother probably did."

"Hey, you want to take it up to the air, Heckle?"

"Marberry, you couldn't hit a stationary giant if you had a flashlight and a map."

"And you're so much better, Heckle? Want to see your arse whipped by a girl?"

"Arse whipped? By you?"

"FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT . . ."

Oliver raced towards the quidditch pitch, throwing his robes on and trying to desperately remember the teaching instructions Madame Hooch had left him.

In his line of vision, his first class was forming a circle, chanting something at the top of their lungs. Remembering his years playing quidditch against the Slytherins, Oliver had a pretty good idea of what they were bellowing.

He finally reached the group in time to push the punks aside to reveal a redheaded girl beating the shit out of a blonde boy. The blonde, who, by the insignia on his robes, was a Slytherin, was desperately trying to land a blow on the redhead.

She, however, was untouchable.

Oliver grabbed the back of her robes, and yanked her to her feet. With the other hand, he picked up the blonde.

"Names," he snapped.

"Jenny Marberry," snarled the girl. A Gryffindor, by her robes.

"James Heckle," sneered the boy (as well as he could, through a black eye, a split lip, half a dozen scratches and something that looking like a broken nose).

"You two look marvelous. Well enough, in fact, to clean and oil school brooms this evening. All of them." Jenny rolled her eyes, but offered not protests. James had, at this point, become semi-unconscious, and Oliver handed him over to a fellow Slytherin, who promised to see his housemate to the infirmary.

"All right, back to the brooms. Move it!"

The other students reluctantly broke up, and returned to the lying brooms.

"I'm Professor Wood, quidditch coach and flying instructor. Now, hold your right hand over your broom and clearly say: 'Up!'."

"Up!"

Nothing so much as twitched. Oliver fought the urge to rub the bridge of his nose with his hand. This was going to be a long day.

* * *

Hermione finally reached her room in a state similar to drop-dead exhaustion. But it couldn't be exhaustion, because Hermione Potter was _never_ tired. Perhaps overworked – perhaps frustrated – but she was too organized to be exhausted.

And the first day of school no less!

"I'm not tired," she muttered to herself, and threw the large book bag onto the common room couch. "Not tired at all."

"Talking to yourself, Potter? That's a bad sign." Of all the people she had to share a common room with, it had to be him, didn't it? Certainly, he was most qualified for the position, but _really_.

"Well then, I suppose talking to your reflection isn't healthy either, Malfoy?" she snapped irritably.

"When one has a reflection as attractive as mine, one can't help talking to it," he replied, moving into her line of vision, looking very pleased with himself.

"You really are an arrogant bastard, aren't you?" she asked, fighting the urge to bang her head against the mahogany coffee table. That would be showing that Malfoy got to her, and that was the last thing she wanted to do.

"My parents were married when they had me, I assure. Father wouldn't let something as uncouth as wedlock spoil his heir," sneered Malfoy. His smirk was infuriating, and Hermione allowed herself the daydream of taking his perfect pale face and smashing it into the marble fireplace.

"Unfortunately, inbreeding seemed to have slipped through his fingers," she replied, and grabbed her bag to slip by him. She was just through when his hand latched like iron onto her forearm.

"I'm inbred? What about the Potters? Your mother was the first one to ever marry _into_ the Potter line."

Hermione Potter, vessel of control, who never let her temper slip (except for that one time in third year, but really, who could blame her? All that stress from exams and Buckbeak's execution and Malfoy just kept pushing and pushing . . .), felt her fist curl, and seconds later, the cartilage in Malfoy's nose crush under her knuckles.

He let out a howl of pain, dropped like a rock, and let go of her arm to clutch at his nose. Blood seeped (more spurted, actually) through his fingers, and dripped onto his impeccable robes.

"Hmm," said Hermione, surprisingly calm considering all the school rules she had just broken, "And I thought that vampires had dust flowing through their veins."

All she got in reply was Malfoy's shrieks.

That was when the laughter came.

But when she reached her bed, and threw herself onto it, all the doubts started coming in.

_YOU IDIOT! The first day of school and how many rules have you broken?_

_**Just one, actually. The one about not assaulting other students.**_

_Do you think anyone is going to believe that your fist slipped and smashed Malfoy in the nose?_

_**He was provoking me. According to the school fighting codes . . . oh, wait.**_

_Exactly. NOTHING about how if he provokes you, you don't get in trouble._

_**Maybe Malfoy won't tell.**_

The little voice in her head began laughing hysterically. With a groan, Hermione buried her head in her pillow.

And promptly awoke three hours later.

"Oh dear," she muttered weakly. The red alarm clock had returned, in all it's shiny glory, to perch on the bedside table. Apparently, it was eight o'clock. "I can't believe I slept through dinner," she murmured, and sat up.

The mirror across from the bed gave a short squeak. Looking at herself, Hermione saw that her beautiful new hair (_Or was it originally mine, therefore making it old? Oh, bugger_.) was standing straight out from her head exactly how it used to.

With a quick brushing spell, her waves were returned in all their shiny goodness. Quickly she grabbed a quill and a spare piece of parchment.

**Harry, Ron -**

**Sorry about dinner. Slept through it. After rounds I'll come to the common room. Be by the fire (don't you dare sit in my chair, Ronald Weasley) around ten. **

**Love,**

**Hermione**

She hastily folded the square into a rudimentary crane, and with a wave of her wand sent it skittering out the door to find Harry or Ron.

Deciding to stop by the pear on her way to the Gryffindor common room, Hermione exited the house dormitories. In the common room, little drops of blood were all that were left of Draco Malfoy and his mangle of a nose.

* * *

This being his first time issuing a detention, Oliver Wood had no idea what a teacher would do. However, having been on the receiving end of many a pink slip, he knew exactly what a student would hate.

When James Heckle and Jenny Marberry arrived, James looking far better than he had eleven hours earlier, Oliver was waiting with one hundred school brooms and fifteen cases of broom oil. Silently, he handed them each a rag, confiscated their wands, and left them to their oiling.

When he returned an hour later, they had just finished, and settled down to glare at each other with evident hostility. He sent them on their way, and started carrying in the brooms.

Normal wizards, having magic at their disposal, would have waved their wands and been done with it.

Oliver, however, liked the feel of the wood in his hands. He respected brooms – they held the life of a person in their slender bodies. He also knew that Hogwarts didn't spare much money on their flying department – if one broke, that was the end of it.

So he carefully picked up a broom in each hand, took them into the shed, deposited them on their rack, and returned outside to carry in another pair.

When only two were left, he heard harried footsteps from around the corner. The owner was muttering furiously.

" . . . believe I slept through Potions . . . Harry and Ron will think . . . idiot, idiot . . ." Hermione suddenly appeared around the side of the broom shed, shaking her head furiously. " . . . what will they think . . . Oh! Oliver! I mean, Professor Wood."

Oliver froze in the process of picking up the Cleansweep 150, and Hermione's eyes wandered down to the other broom lying on the ground. Awkwardly he straightened, and she rushed forward to help him, picking up the remaining flyer.

"Just making my rounds," she said quietly as the entered the cramped room. Broom shelves lined all four walls, and in the center were four small chests, which most likely held the playing balls. Oliver set his wand down on the top of one, and placed the Cleansweep in his hands on one of the two empty slots. Hermione hastily followed, dropping her wand and sliding the broom in.

She looked up to find Oliver's eyes on her, and he quickly dropped his glance. He fussed with the bristles of a Goldenridge below the Cleansweep. One broke off in his hands and he stuffed it into the pocket of his robes.

"So," he said, and paused. Then: "How are your classes?"

"Wonderful," replied Hermione, desperate for any topic. She began to speak quickly, like she used to before Harry and Ron told her that normal humans couldn't hear her when she spoke that fast. "I unfortunately slept throughsome of my classes today, but I'm sure that they were wonderful. I mean, all of the staff is fully qualified, well, except for Umbridge, but she was a bit of a slip-up on the Ministry's side, and Dumbledore would never allow anyone to teach after that nasty incident with the centaurs, so the mysterious new DADA teacher (whomever that is)– "

"Her name's Every," interjected Oliver in a last-ditch attempt to stop the flow of information that was pouring from Hermione's mouth.

"Oh. Right, Professor Every. Dear me, the time's absolutely awful, isn't. Nine already? And I haven't barely started my rounds. I should go." Oliver nodded in slow agreement, and they left the shed. Hermione locked the door with her key, and they had gone a few steps out into the pitch before they both stopped and looked at each other.

"Wands," they said in unison, and as Hermione pulled both keys out of her pocket to find the right one in the failing light, it began to rain. Hard. In fact, it made such a great mud puddle out of leftover dust, that when Oliver stepped forward to help her, he slipped, knocked into her, and both keys fell into the mud.

They went onto their knees, digging through grass and dust and rain, but both metallic keys were gone.

The rain was, if possible, coming down even harder now. If either Hermione or Oliver took time to watch the rain (which they weren't, because the loss of their wands was a more pressing matter) they would have noticed that each drop was the size of a marble or so, and when it hit bare skin, felt like a hit with a softball.

Hermione's long hair did nothing to deflect them, and, if anything, absorbed the rain so as to drip it torturously under her shirt and down her spine.

Soon she was shivering in little jolts, shakes felt through her entire body that had pauses in between a few seconds long.

Oliver quickly noticed, and pulled off his heavy teaching robes to wrap over her back. She looked up, and pulled them off with stiff fingers.

"It won't do us" – shiver – "good to have" – shake – "one person hog all the warmth and the other have" – shiver – "none at all." Ignoring her, he threw the soaking wet garment around her. By mutual silent agreement, they backed into the shade of the broom shed.

"Do you want to make a run for the school?" asked Oliver. Hermione shook her head, and found that once she started she couldn't stop. She grasped her head in both hands and forced it to still.

"I had to sneak out. My rounds were supposed to be done hours ago. The door locked behind me, but I didn't have to worry because I still had my wand then."

"Great," muttered Oliver, and found himself forgoing his macho exterior to shake a little. Giving a maternal 'hmph', Hermione unwrapped both cloaks – giving Oliver a long glance at her transparent shirt – and threw the heavy material around his wide shoulders.

Then they sank to ground, and huddled. Also by mutual agreement, they kept a centimeter between them at all times. Eventually, though, Hermione's head was burrowed against his shoulder as her lips turned blue, and she whispered, "How is it this cold in September?"

"I have no idea," replied Oliver, and then, of all things, it began to snow.

Hogwarts was already drowning in something like three centimeters of water (it felt like sitting in a kiddie pool), and the immediate drop in temperature meant that it started to freeze around them. The quidditch field looked like something out of a 9th grade science project.

The thick flakes weren't as large as the rain drops, but Hermione's hazel eyes widened, and her teeth began to frantically knock together. Oliver drew one arm out of the warmth to wrap around her shoulder and pull her against him. He leaned against the shed, and she leaned against him.

It would have been terribly romantic if they could've felt their toes.

* * *

So . . . if you could just review, I could tell you whether or not they all die buried in a snowdrift, all right? 


	14. PROFESSOR EVERY

**IMPORTANT AUTHOR'S NOTE REGARDING HALF-BLOOD PRINCE:** Alright, because I started this before HPB was published, I have to tell you what I'm keeping. I AM NOT KEEPING: Draco/Snape turning bad, Dumbledore dying, and . . . well . . . that's about it. If I think up anything else, I'll let you know.

Chapter Fourteen: Professor Every

* * *

The clock on the mantle above the fireplace chimed ten thirty. Four people were still in the Gryffindor common room. Two of there were concerned friends.

Harry and Ron had long ago abandoned their game of wizard's chess and were now staring at each other. One of Hermione's annoying traits was her tendency to be on time. 'On time' (even with Hermione's need to obsessive-compulsively search everywhere during her rounds) had passed a half-hour earlier.

"Where the bloody hell is she?" finally asked Ron, breaking the icy silence. Neither mentioned it aloud, but they were remembering clearly the incident with the snake over the summer. Voldemort was ruthless in his efficiency. Even Hogwarts wasn't safe.

After an unseemly pause Harry said lamely, "I'm sure that Hermione has a reason for being late." _Bullshit_, retorted the little voice in the back of his head. Harry and Ron both knew that it was bullshit, but they needed reassurance.

_Hermione's face frozen in surprise as the snake sank its fangs into her ankles._

_Her eyes rolling as the venom steadily pulsed through her system._

_The awful silence of St. Mungo's. _

_Waiting. Waiting._

**_Shut it_**, he told himself.

To keep his mind away from coming up with other creative injuries that Hermione could be receiving right them, he whirled around with a huff of annoyance and stalked to the windowsill. To his surprise, the grounds were obscured by whirling white winds.

He blinked.

"Bloody hell!" he shouted, backing away from the window as if it had the plague. The two sixth year boys conversing in the corner looked up, but seeing that the culprit who had interrupted their plans was just the delusional Boy-Who-Lived, they returned to the sheet of parchment spread on the floor in front of them. Ron appeared at his side, and his eye widened.

The youngest Weasley boy whistled through his teeth at the sight. "Is that snow? In September?" Harry didn't reply, and instead cranked open the window, thrusting his hand out into the blizzard. Ron bit back a shout, and watch the thick white flakes gather in his best friend's palm. They were large enough that he could distinguish patterns.

A teeth-chattering wind swept into the common room, bringing with it what looked like the contents of a Fluffy-sized feather pillow. Disgruntled, the sixth years packed up their parchment and huffed up the stairs to the boys dormitory, grumbling.

Harry stuck his head out the window, feeling the flakes brush against his skin and gather on the bridge of his glasses. Gooseflesh began to rise on the back of his neck as snow tangled in his hair. From what he could see of it (which wasn't much), the Forbidden Forest was indistinguishable from the rest of the grounds. The lake wasn't even visible, probably frozen under at least a foot of snow.

When he pulled his head back in, Ron had gotten rid of the snow, and was staring in wonder. "It's snow," confirmed Harry, shaking his head. He pulled off his glasses to sweep his finger across the bridge between the lenses. Ron pulled the window shut, and in unison they turned their eyes to the grounds.

"Hey," declared Ron, with dawning comprehension in his eyes. "I think Hermione's rounds near the quidditch pitch. D'you think she got caught in this, had to get shelter?" Harry shrugged.

"I'm not even sure when this started. It's coming down so thick it's hard to tell. The map would say," he decided.

"The map!" repeated Ron. "Why didn't we–"

"Shh!"

"–think of the ruddy map?"

Instead of answering, Harry took the stairs two at a time to the seventh year boys dormitory at the top of the tower. There he quietly unpacked his trunk, so as not to wake Neville, Seamus or Dean, and drew the old piece of black parchment from its place between some wrinkled blue jeans and the homework planner from Hermione, which he had never gotten around to throwing away.

He returned to the common room, and sat in front of the fire. He tapped the parchment with his wand, muttered, "I solemnly swear I am up to no good" and lay it out. Spidery writing flooded the parchment, and when Ron settled next to him, the Marauder's Map was in its full form.

They each took a half and began to search frantically. It was Ron who finally found her dot. It was right next to the one labeled 'Oliver Wood', right before the broom shed. Harry and Ron exchanged looks.

"Wood?" they asked each other.

"You don't think," began Ron, but Harry cut him off.

"Why would they be in front of the broom shed, not in it? Something's off." He resolutely ignored Ron's implied message.

Still ignoring Ron's raised eyebrows, he drew his Invisibility Cloak from his bag on the couch. Ron folded up the map to show their path, and they slipped under. Quickly, they rushed down the corridors to the Entrance Hall, only a glance needed to tell them that no one was near.

The front door was locked and bolted, but some quick wandwork and a handy spell Bill had taught them over the summer had it swinging open into the blizzard. Harry spared barely a glance to Hogsmeade, which seemed to be unharmed, and then they closed the doors behind them.

With combined effort, Harry and Ron blasted a path through the deep drift in the general direction of the quidditch field. When they were within a few feet, they saw Hermione and Oliver, luckily not fully frozen, sitting in what Harry guessed to be almost three centimeters of solid ice. They dropped the Invisibility Cloak, rushing forward. He ignored Oliver, and pulled his sister out of the ice.

Harry could tell that she was feebly trying to raise up herself, and he stuffed his wand in his back pocket to pull her up. Panicked thoughts were racing through his mind, and he swept her up into his arms. He left Ron behind with Oliver, and rushed towards the boys locker room.

_Oh god, what have I done? _

_What's wrong with her? _

_Why didn't we think of the map beforehand? _

_Will she be okay? Please, please, be okay. _

_Be okay, Hermione. Don't die._

The door was locked, but the latch exploded into splinters as he came closer. Without conscious thought he moved through the benches, hitting lockers to keep his balance, and stopped when he reached the showers.

There he dropped his sister onto the tiled floors, and tugged her cloak from her. She was shivering, teeth chattering. All the same, she was rubbing her heart to keep the blood flowing. Hermione, reliable to the end. Harry turned on the showers full blast, a warm temperature that wouldn't shock her system, but would hopefully melt the snow and ice away.

Known that Harry didn't want to speak, Ron silently followed his exact movements with the huddled form of Oliver Wood. The flying professor seemed worse off, seeing as most of his cloak was wrapped around Hermione, but he was alive.

They dropped the frozen clothing in the dirty laundry shoot, and then sat down to worry. Hermione seemed to be coming back to herself at a faster rate than the professor, though her teeth were knocking together hard enough to chip.

Her eyes were closed.

She rested her left cheek on her knees and slowly opened her eyes. A black form was surrounded by an aura of smoke. It took her normally logical brain a moment to translate the smoke into steam, and the black form into Oliver.

Slowly, achingly, she turned her head so her right cheek rested on her knees, and there she saw Harry and Ron, watching her with restless eyes, concern scrawled over their faces. Her frozen features cracked into a smile.

"Get up to the castle and get Madame Pomfrey," whispered Harry to Ron out of the corner of his mouth. "And Professor McGonagall." Hermione could hear his words through the hissing of the steam. It took her a moment, long enough that Ron was already halfway out the door, to find the proper words and her voice, but then she was saying: "No."

"No!" It was a whisper, but it echoed around the locker rooms.

_Darkness._

"I . . . don't . . . need . . . a . . . nurse."

"You were stuck in the snow for how long? You're getting a ruddy check-up!" snapped Harry, concern making his irritable. Hermione shook her head slowly.

"All she . . . can do . . . is give me . . . a Pepper-Up . . . potion. Nothing . . . sleep . . . can't fix." Oliver turned his head from staring at his knees to staring at Hermione, who was continuously surprising him.

"You don't know that! Dammit, Hermione! Get the check-up! If I have to stun you, you're getting there!" hissed Harry.

"No."

What Harry didn't know was that Hermione was beginning to develop a phobia of hospitals. Seldom a year at Hogwarts went by when she wasn't clutching Harry's cold hand after a disastrous quidditch match, or there herself, getting healed for various serious injuries. The stint during the summer had convinced her.

No more hospitals.

Harry and Ron had known Hermione long enough to realize that she was in one of her stubborn phases. Nothing would take her out of it, so they sat there for another ten minutes, as Hermione and Oliver came out of their frozen comas.

As though to further convince Harry and Ron of her good health, Hermione chattered incessantly about trivial things, mostly asking about what she had missed during Potions, and how badly she would be penalized.

Oliver sat silently, watching her. His eyelashes were frozen with ice, and when he looked at Hermione, she was framed by a silver circle.

Finally, Hermione had stood up under the shower, and turned hers off. Oliver slowly took to his feet. Both automatically reached for their wands, Hermione to her pocket and Oliver to his arm strap. They stopped in unison. "Wands," they both said.

Harry and Ron, who were sullenly watching Hermione for any sign of weakness, were quickly informed of Oliver and Hermione's dilemma. Ron was dispatched to fetch their wands from the broom shed, and Hermione helped Harry turn his wand into an impromptu hair-drier to dry her soaking clothes. After a while, she gave up, and Harry pulled some old sweats for her and Oliver to change into.

Appearing from around the corner, drowned in scarlet and gold pants and jacket (the latter which was unzipped far enough to show the top of a loose tank Harry had found), she looked fragile, and with her sodden hair air drying into a frizzy mess, she looked like, well, a mess. Oliver's inbred hero complex began to urge him to save her. From what, he didn't know.

Harry, the Boy-Who-Lived-To-Save-People, however, saw a friend and sister who looked like she needed seven good-night-sleeps and a Pepper-Up Potion. As he opened his mouth to ask her again if she didn't want to see Madame Pomfrey, Oliver spoke.

"Because I'm a professor, I'm bound to tell Headmaster Dumbledore about what's happened," he said quietly. Harry's jaw, which had already been open, snapped shut.

"Do you have to?" asked Hermione, purposely leaving off his title. The Scotsman, however, gave a wry half-smile that made Hermione's insides squirm with an unknown feeling.

He sighed. "Unfortunately, yes. And Harry's right, you should go in for a check-up." At the sight of her face, he quickly added. "Most likely you'll be called in for one by an irate Madame Pomfrey. And we all know how loose she is with sharp objects when she's irate." Hermione smiled, and so did Oliver. For a moment, they forgot that they were in a locker room, and Hermione took a half step towards him. This was Moment, when their eyes locked, something clicked, and two and two came together to –

"I suppose you won't take points off for us being out past curfew, will you, professor?" asked Harry hopefully, shattering the wall of privacy they had created. Hermione's head jerked, and Oliver thought seriously about telling Harry exactly where he could put his points.

"It's coming down even faster now. I had to make a new path," announced Ron, banging open the door, shaking snow out of his hair and brushing off his shoulders. Ignoring the tension in a very Ron-ish way, he held out the two wands. Oliver took both, and when he handed Hermione hers, their fingertips brushed.

"We'd better go," said Harry, suspicion laced through his voice. Oliver mentally shook off the cobwebs, and smiled a brilliant grin that was a very good copy of a real smile. Hermione knew, though – she knew that the quick grin was hardly his best.

"Oh, fifty points each to you and Ron, for saving my life and Hermione's," added Oliver.

* * *

Surprisingly, Hermione never got that check-up notice. For the next two meals, when she looked up to the Head table, Oliver, Dumbledore and McGonagall were all watching her, but a note from Madame Pomfrey never came.

Also surprisingly, Snape didn't give her detention for missing his class. He certainly had enough time – she made it to meals before him and she passed him in the hall numerous times – but he always seemed a bit off, a bit distracted.

For the next three days, Friday, Saturday and Sunday, she could feel something on the edge of her mind knock repeatedly against her skull. _Remember, remember, remember. _There was something she was forgetting, something that was so very important, if she could just remember what it was.

By Monday, the feeling was a throb against her right eye. It didn't diminish the quality of her homework or class work, but it annoyed her to no end. During lunch, she pushed it forcefully away, and threw herself into the cheerful gossiping of Harry and Ron.

After lunch, they had DADA with the mysterious Professor Every. Over chicken wings and celery sticks, they swapped the numerous tales that had been spreading like wildfire. Harry and Ron had previously come to the conclusion that she was a vampire, and were trying to convince Hermione.

"That's the only reasonable explanation," said Ron around a mouthful of chicken. Hermione snorted, carefully chewing on her celery stick before deeming to reply. When she did so, she waved the half-eaten stick for emphasis.

"Hardly," she sniffed. "She couldn't be a vampire if she had her first year class down by the lake, now could she?"

"Well, regardless," huffed Ron. He didn't bother finishing his sentence, however, as he had just noticed the platter of raspberry tarts next to Hermione, and was happily filling his plate with the sticky treats.

Any possible out-of-doors classes were, for now, out of the question. The bad weather that had begun on the first day had just increased. Friday night, Dumbledore had said that the new wards were causing a weather phenomena that, as of yet, had no cure.

Saturday morning they had been forced to trudge through the thick snow to the greenhouses, the seventh years bundled in scarves, coats, gloves and hats, and now all Herbology classes had been temporarily suspended as the professors reputedly fought to hold back the snow.

Ron was still stuffing desserts as the other seventh year students packed their bags quickly, and exited the Great Hall. He and Harry chatted (once Ron had finished inhaling raspberry tarts and cleaned off the spot of jam that Hermione pointed out on his chin) about quidditch practices. Hermione hung behind, chewing her bottom lip and tried in vain to fight the gnawing feeling that she had forgotten something.

The door to the DADA classroom was fully open, and all the window blinds were raised. Hermione triumphantly shot Ron a raised eyebrow, which he pointedly ignored. From the doorway she could see Professor Every sitting behind her desk with her strange angled hair, in butterbeer-brown robes, shuffling through her lesson planner.

Unwilling to be the first, the students milled in the doorway. Without raising her head or pausing in her shuffling, Professor Every said, "Come in, come in. Choose your seats. Be warned, however, that if I do not like it I will change it." Harry, Ron and Hermione chose the center table in the front row. Immediately, Hermione took out her parchment and quill. The professor stood after a while, dropping the planner carelessly on her desk.

"My name, as you most likely already know, is Vallorie Every." She gave a wry smile. "Contrary to popular belief, I am not a vampire." There were titters. "Nor am I any other creature, dark or otherwise. So the rumors stop here."

"Those of you that have landed in my NEWT class are most likely pursuing careers are Aurors. Although the administration would prefer if I simply taught you what you would need to get into the Academy, I think in these dark times you would be better served to know about dark magic. At this point, feel free to leave my classroom if you are uncomfortable." No one moved. "All right. I am going to teach, to a certain extent, dark magic." Harry leaned forward, intrigued.

"Ah, I see you are all stunned. Once again, I repeat my offer. No one? Very well, let me explain my reasoning. You are fighting dark magic. It would help a great deal to know what you are fighting.

"Now, understand, I am in no way endorsing the use of the dark arts. But knowing what you're up against will help you. Save your life, in many occasions. Thus, I have not put a text on your booklist. We'll be doing this verbally. I did ask you to bring self-writing quills, because your notes will become your text of sorts. Please take out a sheet of parchment and quills." Harry and Ron slowly unpacked as Hermione rearranged hers.

"Stand up please. Everyone," said Professor Every. The class took to its feet. "Put your wands on the table. Not touching. I don't want you casting it, not yet. The first spell I'll teach you is simple. At least, compared to the others you'll learn. _Malumos_. Repeat. _Malumos._"

"Malemos," stumbled Ron.

"_Malumos_," corrected Hermione.

"_Male–_" said Ron, and Hermione pressed her hands against his cheeks, forcing his mouth into the shape to pronounce 'u'. "–_mos_," he finished. Although her hands felt warm where she had touched him, the euphoria felt brittle.

"_Malumos_," whispered Harry. The hair on the back of his neck tickled, and he could feel something slithering across his back.

Voldemort.

He gave a short shudder, and returned to the present. Professor Every was speaking, and his quill was jotting notes quickly.

"It means dark light," translated the professor. "It performs a watered-down effect of the Dementor. The curse surrounds it's victim with cloud of black light, and deflects any good feelings or positive thoughts. Takes away hope." His quill continued furiously.

Waving her wand, Professor Every produced a cage of small rats. "Mr. Filch has kindly caught these fellows for our practice." A rat twittered, and Harry's mind saw Peter Pettigrew's once-rotund face contorted in pain as he sliced his flesh for Voldemort's revival.

"Harry?" Hermione's face was close, and he noticed, detached, that her eyes were strangely gold around the edges, and green towards the middle. Her eyelashes fluttered a little. "Harry!" She shook him, and Harry blinked.

"Sorry," he muttered. "I went out for a moment. The rat reminded me of Pettigrew." Hermione's mouth opened into a little 'O'.

"Mr. Potter, please come and fetch your rat," came the voice of Professor Every. Still off, he wandered off, and picked up the animal by it's tail. When he returned Hermione was already tapping hers resolutely.

"Don't worry Harry. I heard they use badgers in the Academy," consoled Hermione. Then she froze. "Badgers," she whispered.

_I remember!_

Within five minutes, she and Harry were the only ones who had successfully forced depression upon their rats. "What are you doing?" hissed Ron under his breath.

"Think of the rat as Umbridge," whispered back Harry. The next moment, Ron's rat was enveloped in a cloud of blue smoke, and when it cleared, a small black turtle was lying in its place, motionless.

"I killed it!" whispered Ron sorrowfully. Snorting, Hermione tapped it with her wand, and seconds later a grey rat was sitting, twitching its nose in a rat-esque way. "Thanks a ton, Hermione. I didn't mean to do that." Hermione smiled at him.

After she had returned her rat, she packed her things and sat, chewing her nails and thinking furiously. The last twenty minutes of class she pulled out her scribbled copy of the Sorting Song, and transferred it to a larger piece of paper. Then she added notes, scratching out and writing in cramped handwriting that betrayed her haste.

When the bell rang, she pulled Harry and Ron after her into the corridor. Her hands grabbing each of theirs, she dragged them to a secreted niche around the corner.

"_Silencio_," said Hermione, waving her wand to form a barrier around them. "I found it! The next Horcrux! I know where it is!"

* * *

BWHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

Who is the evil person who loves cliffies?

MEEEEEE!

Sorry. WAY too much kettle corn. Also, tomorrow is my last day of midterms. YES. SO . . . CLOSE . . .

Just review, please. Make this weekend even better.


	15. A LITTLE GIFT

**A/N:** **_I LOVE YOU GUYS!_**

It's official: TOPC has now officially reached (and passed) the 200 review mark. Thank you all SO MUCH for reviewing my little story. As a reward: **_FLUFF_** has been added to this chapter. Nothing major. I just thought you all deserved a little something for supporting me.

P.S. LIFE-SIZE GUMMY OLIVER TO MY 200TH REVIEWER!

Chapter Fifteen: A Little Gift

* * *

Previously in _The Other Potter Child_:

"_**Silencio," said Hermione, waving her wand to form a barrier around them. "I found it! The next Horcrux! I know where it is!"

* * *

**_

"What?" asked Harry, staring at his sister's glowing face. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"It's the cup of Hufflepuff!" she said excitedly. "The next Horcrux. The one that that horrid old woman had, along with Riddle's mother's locket. It's right here, under our noses, here at Hogwarts!" Halfway through her statement, Harry began shaking his head.

"Hermione, Voldemort would never be stupid enough to put a part of his soul in _Hogwarts_," he said, but Hermione interrupted him, talking so fast that Harry and Ron were having trouble understanding her.

"It's a sort of final probe at Dumbledore and wizarding society. You see, he left it here when he went to Dumbledore about the Transfiguration position. He must've known that Dumbledore would never give him the job – one thing Voldemort is not is stupid – so, he left it here on his way out!" She finished with gusto.

Harry and Ron gazed at her with a glazed look in their eyes.

Silence.

Then . . .

"**What the bloody hell are you talking about!**" asked Ron and Harry at the same moment.

Hermione huffed, annoyed. "I quote, from the Sorting Song: "Kind Hufflepuff never knew of the grace her house hath grew, in it lurks the power unknown, come forth bearer and power shone." She looked up expectantly at her brother and Ron, who both had confusion scrawled over their faces.

"The power unknown is Voldemort's horcrux. The bearer is Hufflepuff's cup, and the power is . . . well, that's obvious. The grace her house hath grew is a direct reference to _Hogwarts, A History_." She pulled out the sheet, and pointed to a scribbled quote in the bottom corner. In her handwriting was written:

_In the beginning, there were the four founders. Although Slytherin often complained about the blood of new students, for the first twenty years they lived in relative harmony. However, when his son and heir, Bénédicité came to Hogwarts in his first year, he began to resent the muggle-borns who surpassed his son's magical abilities. Bénédicité, which is French for 'grace', eventually fell in with a young muggle-born. _

Slowly Harry was beginning to understand. "So, the 'grace her house hath grew' simply means that her heir is at Hogwarts. Well, we knew that already." Hermione was huffing.

"I wrote a translation of the stanza in the bottom." She pointed to another scribbled section.

_Kind Hufflepuff never knew ------------------Helga Hufflepuff never understood_

_Of the grace her house hath grew ----------That her heir would return to Hogwarts_

_In it lurks the power unknown--------------At that time the final Horcrux would be revealed_

_Come forth bearer and power shone ------Hu__fflepuff's cup would be reached by the heir_

Ron still looked confused, but he nodded because Harry was.

"Why would the heir be needed to reach the cup?" asked Harry. "I thought it would only react to Voldemort?"

"Ah," said Hermione with her usual knowing smile. "But they're not talking about just a horcrux, or just a cup. They're talking about _the_ House Cup."

"The House Cup? But anyone can . . ." began Harry.

"Oh, really," snapped Hermione. "Not that House Cup." Their lack of comprehension was beginning to irk her, and the translation was trembling in her clenched fist. "_The_ House Cup. There are four of them, one for each house. On the back wall of the Trophy Room. All Riddle would have to do was open the cabinet, transfigure his, and placed it there."

"But," said Harry, his head spinning with all the cups, "How could he touched the House Cup if he wasn't the heir of Hufflepuff?"

"Ah," said Hermione, her smug smile returning. "_The original cup never left_. He just shrunk it, and put the transfigured horcrux in it's place. That would fool the wards."

"But Hogwarts is smarter than that," shot out Ron. He was ignored, and Hermione yanked open the curtain to stalk towards the Trophy Room. Sharing a look of confusion, Harry and Ron followed Hermione into the tall chamber housing all the school's trophies.

When they entered, Hermione pointed to the back wall. It was covered from top to bottom in shining brass plaques, each about two inches long and four inches wide. In the exact center of the wall were four cups, placed in a diamond formation around a circular stained glass window.

The window was a moving portrait of the four house animals intertwined. As they approached, the snake tightened a tail around the raven. Eventually, Harry was able to make out the names on the plaques.

"Geraldine Kinsman, Evan Buldergock, 1876," he read aloud, looking, slightly alarmed, at the three lines. "What the bloody hell . . ."

"Head Boys and Girls," answered Hermione, moving forward. She pointed to a plaque closer to the bottom that was shinier than the one Harry had picked out. "Lily Evans, Remus Lupin, 1987," she said.

"Really?" asked Harry excitedly. He followed her finger to the small plaque where, written in loopy script, were the names of a werewolf and his mother.

Ron, meanwhile, had found the Hufflepuff cup. It was the one on the bottom. Harry and Hermione clustered around him, and they silently read the block print at the base of the cup. _Helga Hufflepuff, Founder of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry does say that no Other than my Heir of Hogwarts may touch this Cup. _

"Well," muttered Harry uneasily. "No need to encourage us so." Hermione's eyebrows furrowed together, and she took out her wand to experimentally tap the cup. It shimmered for a moment, and an awful smelling green mist shot out into her eyes.

Having anticipated this, Hermione ducked, and the mist flew in a clear arc across the room, where it hit a small silver trophy and dissolved it. Silenced, the trio exchanged looks. "Any more brilliant ideas?" asked Ron testily.

"Shut it," snapped Hermione, stepping back and surveying the cup with an admiring glance. "This is some amazing magic," she continued, as if Harry and Ron were not there. "I've never heard of this charm used before. Hypothetically, it exists, but there isn't a any wizard or witch on record who can produce it."

"Well, Hermione, you aren't just any witch," pointed out Harry. "Do you know how to get it off?" His sister sighed.

"Really, I have only one solution. We'll have to find Hufflepuff's heir, and get them to take down the trophy for us. Voluntarily – if we make them, it won't work."

"How in the name of Merlin do we find Hufflepuff's heir?" asked Ron. Hermione gave a haughty look.

"The library, of course."

"Of course," grumbled Ron. "It's always the bloody library."

Ignoring him, she explained, "There's a book of ancient wizarding bloodlines that magically updates itself."

"Well," replied Harry, checking his wristwatch, "The library'll be open for another hour. What do you say to Ron and I getting some food from the kitchens, you checking out the book and the three of us meeting back in the common room?"

"Perfect," replied Hermione, and they separated.

* * *

The spy of Voldemort's was not currently spying.

In the exact moment that the Golden Trio split, intent on finding the heir of Hufflepuff, and through that the next horcrux, she was locked in a deep embrace with her lover.

They shared another kiss, prolonging their departure, and then his voice broke the layer of silence that they usually met under.

"I've got something for you," he whispered huskily. Then her name.

"Oh . . ." she said, her voice lower than usual. "I love presents."

"I know," he replied, smiling into the silky skin where her neck met her shoulders. Out of his pocket he drew a black velvet jewelry box.

"Jewelry?" asked the spy. She took her arms from around his neck to take the box. "Oh, I love shiny things."

"Open it," he replied. She did so, revealing a thin chain on which rested a small locket. It was delicate, with her first and last initial intertwined in curly script.

"It's beautiful," she breathed, fingering the chain.

"I want to see it on you," he said, and unhooked the backing. She lifted her thick hair, piling it onto the top of her head with both hands. He slipped the chain around her neck, gently kissed her collarbone as he fastened the hook.

From her neck he let his hands wander down to circle themselves around her waist. "You look ravishing," he whispered into the back of her ear, and lay another kiss there.

She shivered, and let her hair drop so she could circle one hand around, and bring his face to hers. They kissed, a deep meeting of the lips, over her shoulder.

"I should go," he said against her ruby lips.

"Probably," she agreed, slipping her hand on his face to the back of his neck, and brought him in for another drowning kiss.

At that moment, when she whispered his name, turned, and wrapped both arms around his neck, Draco Malfoy forgot about everything except the woman he held in his arms.

* * *

"Ollie?"

Oliver turned to the door. Standing there was his sister, curly brown hair in disarray, a bright smile on her face.

"Rose!" he said, and she rushed forward to give him a deep hug. His always cheerful sister had an unnerving habit of finding him whenever his thoughts turned dark.

"How are you? Silly, you never sent me an owl about getting a position here!" she asked in a single breath, settling down in the chair next to his. He let his wand drop, as though he was exhausted, and charmed the opened bottle of Firewhiskey under the bed.

"Exhausted. And I'm sorry about the letter. Things got a bit frantic, and I had to stay at the Burrow." Rose wrinkled her nose in disbelief.

"Liar."

"Can't prove it," he replied, and stuck out his tongue. She giggled, and leant back in the chair. "Sorry," he said. "Momentarily transported back to first year there."

"Speaking of first years, how was your class?" she asked.

"You don't want to know," said Oliver, and she pestered him relentlessly until he gave her the story of the fighting Gryffindor and Slytherin.

"Sounds fun," she giggled again. Bright, cheery, always with a smile, Rose Wood was the perfect Hufflepuff. She wanted to go into a career in childcare, marry young, and have 'tons of grandchildren' (in her words) by the time she was sixty.

As comfortable silence descended over them, Oliver's thoughts drifted to where they had been before his sister arrived. Before she had appeared in the doorway, he'd been slumped over a stashed bottle of firewhiskey, his thoughts focused on only one thing:

Hermione.

It was incredibly stupid, how he continually thought about her. What the hell was he thinking? She was seventeen, obviously in love with Ron Weasley (whatever she saw in the senseless git he'd never know) and really the exact opposite of his type.

He liked them small, blonde, quiet. Yet, here she was, a know-it-all who could kiss like she was born doing it, and a mane of curls that had a life of their own. Rose had once tactfully pointed out that he didn't like women who were smarter than he was, and she was absolutely right.

Hermione Potter was not supposed to be the woman that he would fall in love with.

It was impossible, he argued with the universe. Who's bright idea was this?

And every time he railed with every spec of evidence that he had, his thoughts drifted back to watching her crumple in the field outside the Burrow, and the way her eyes still shined when they were stuck in three centimeters of solid ice. Sometimes they went as far back as his seventh year, when she'd saved his quidditch match, and he'd thought seriously about kissing her.

Now that he had – kissed her, that is – he was wishing that he hadn't waited four years to do it. What the hell had he been thinking? She was perfect. Hermione may not have been his type – but she was still perfect.

"Dammit," he muttered weakly. He found himself wishing that his sister would go away, so he could chug a little more of that secret reserve, and go over in his mind every memory that he had of Hermione.

"Damn what?" inquired his little sister.

"Nothing," he replied a little too quickly. Her eyes narrowed, but after a few moments of mental battle, she decided to let it go.

"Fine. I'll see you in a bit, Oliver." She left quickly. As the portrait swung closed behind her, Oliver debated whether or not to succumb to temptation.

"_Accio_ Firewhiskey," he mumbled, and the bottle was in his hands within seconds.

Then he stood, took a little swill, and threw the brown bottle with all his might into the fireplace. It exploded, glass shards littering the stone, the liquor gleaming noxiously on the three logs piled there.

He turned on his heel, and walked out.

* * *

Hermione made it to the library with fifteen minutes before she had to meet Harry and Ron. She bypassed Madam Pince in a blur, and buried herself in the history section.

Like it's occupants, the history section itself wasregarded as ancienthistory. Piled in alphabetical order that was rarely disturbed were Hogwarts' collection of wizarding bloodlines, school yearbooks, and every copy of the _Daily Prophet_ ever printed, all covered in a thick layer of dust.

Moving purposefully through the stacks, Hermione knew that she was alone. Everyone else in the school was at dinner, chatting with their friends, laughing, eating mashed potatoes.

_They're not looking for a way to destroy Voldemort's soul_, hissed a little voice.

"Shut up," she said aloud, because who would hear her?

Her statement echoed through the small corner, metaphorically rustling the _Daily Prophet_. Running her finger down the titles, Hermione squatted and searched with squinted eyes the bottom row. There it was, nestled between _Hrtach _and _Humpherty _was _Hufflepuff_. She pulled out the scroll, brushing the almost solidified dust off.

As she stood, choking a bit on dust, her vision was blurred. She didn't know what had caused it andshe knew why.

A second later shedid as shewas pressed against the bookshelf full of scrolls. Her head was resting between two labels, and then someone's lips were pressed on hers. She thought for a moment about screaming or struggling – but only for a brief moment, because at the next she was melting into a little puddle of Hermione.

It was as if she had stuck an electric current into her mouth and flipped the switch. But it was softer than that, and when someone's hands, calloused, gently rubbed her cheek, she closed her eyes and, dropping the scroll, wrapped her arms around that someone's neck.

Forgetting about air, forgetting about the fact that she was in a library, Hermione pulled that someone closer to her, because that feeling of jolts and happiness was familiar. This unidentified someone, who kissed like he knew what he was doing, was the same person who had kissed her in the hospital. She knew that.

His hands had left her cheek, and were on the small of her back, pressing her closer. She gladly complied, molding her frame against his, pulling his neck down, and arching her own to deepen this maddening kiss which seemed to be lasting forever.

"Miss Gr – Potter? I know you're here! Check something out or leave!" As she unhooked her arms, releasing the kiss, she opened her eyes. They were clear now, but when she tried to focus on the someone in front of her, he was gone, all that she could see a toe vanishing around the corner.

She dashed after him, but found herself facing an empty aisle. The next was empty as well, and with a leaden bullet sitting in the bottom of her stomach, she returned to the history scrolls. "Miss Potter!" hissed Madam Pince, appearing at the front of the aisle. "Haven't you heard me?" She looked, with narrowed eyes, at the displaced scrolls where Hermione's head had rested.

"Sorry, Madam Pince." In a peace offering, Hermione held out the scroll. "I'd like to check this out, if I may?" Grumbling, the librarian led the way to the front desk. Hermione looked in each aisle that they passed, in search of whoever it was that had kissed her, but he was no where to be see.

* * *

Gasping, Oliver turned the final corner to his rooms, and paused, to hold his ribs. He couldn't believe that he had done it again.

"Dammit," he muttered.

* * *

So . . . . there's this little thing called REVIEWING. And you do it if you value your life. 


	16. THE HEIR OF HUFFLEPUFF

HERE IT IS!

ALL REJOICE!

Anyway, please understand that I was forced to write this quickly. A HUGE storm is supposed to hit at midnight, and I'm proof-reading this so, if we lose power, I can update once we get it back.. Understand my grammar mistakes.

Here it is . . .

Chapter Sixteen: The Heir of Hufflepuff

* * *

"Why are we meeting here? God, Potter could show up at any moment, and she'd know."

"Why don't you trust me? She's meeting with Weasel and Potty. They won't be back for hours."

"Ooh."

"I didn't say we meet here for that. We have business."

"Oh?"

"Important business."

"I'm sure."

"**Important business**."

"How important?"

"It needs to be done right away."

"So . . . tell me. What is this oh so important something that needs to be done right away?"

"Important enough that you should not ridicule it."

"Don't snap at me."

"I'm sorry."

"What is it?"

"Listen . . ."

* * *

They were an hour into _The Ancient and Most Revered House of Hufflepuff_, and the Golden Trio was ready to strangle the heir of Hufflepuff.

They'd unrolled the scroll, and found the newest name at the bottom. One 'Audrey Reynolds', the youngest of the Hufflepuff line, had died in 1945.

Deciding to follow the natural course of things, they started again at the top.

Ron was the first to fold.

"I'm starting to think that there _is _no heir," he said. "This is all just one big joke." He leaned back in his chair, and rubbed his red eyes.

Emotion was running high in their small corner of the common room. "Of course there is," snapped Hermione. "The Sorting Hat wouldn't have mentioned it unless the heir was here at Hogwarts now."

"Oh, come on," interrupted Harry, ready to be witness to another infamous Hermione vs. Ron argument. "We can do this."

Sighing, Ron bent back over the scroll.

For another ten minutes, they continued. Then Ron said, aloud, "What was wrong with these people – a brother and sister married each other!"

"Sick."

_Brother and sister._

"Wait! That's it!" Hermione exclaimed.

"What's it?" chorused Harry and Ron half-heartedly.

Hermione paused to shoot them looks of ill-disguised disgust, before explaining, "These scrolls only record what it believes to be true Hufflepuff lines." She ignored Ron's "The thing can thing?" and stood up. "Any children of an illicit marriage, like that of Morgan and Geoffrey Hufflepuff, wouldn't be included."

"So the heir . . ." realized Harry.

"Is from that line," finished Hermione. "I think that I have a book on illicit lines in my Head Girl room." She stood up, tossed some Floo into the fireplace, and disappeared.

A second later, she stumbled forth, a huge tome in her arms. She dropped it on the table with a large thud.

"_Forbidden Love: The Illicit Lines of the World's Major Wizarding Families_," read Ron. "Who writes a book like that?" He shot a look at Hermione. "Just happened to have this, did you?"

Hermione opened the book carefully, and flipped through the pages, until she reached a yellowed page bearing the title 'Hufflepuff'. "I got this at a used book sale at Flourish and Blotts," she said in reply. She turned past the introduction, and found the fold-out page that held the line beginning with the married siblings Morgan and Geoffrey.

Harry noticed that the page was dotted with names in deep burgundy instead of the traditional black. "Those the heirs?" he asked.

"Hmm," mumbled Hermione in consent.

She ran her finger down the line to the bottom of the page. "Got it!" she announced, then, reading the name, drew in a deep breath. "No!"

"No, what?" asked Harry, leaning to read the name her finger highlighted. The first thing he noticed was that, instead of burgundy, the name she had found was in a brighter blood red.

_Rose Allison Wood_, he read.

"Wood?"

Hermione's finger, involuntarily, moved to the name next to it, and there he saw, _Oliver Everett Wood._

"No way. Wood's _sister _is the heir of Hufflepuff?"

"Wait – Wood has a sister?" asked Ron.

"Try to keep up, Ron," snapped Hermione. "Of course he does. She's in Hufflepuff, fifth year."

"Oh, _of course_," mumbled Ron.

"Well, all we have to do is find her," said Harry brightly, trying again to sift the conversation away from a potential fight.

"Right, and once we find her, we say what?" asked Hermione. " 'Oh, hello there. We've never met, but we're searching for a piece of Voldemort's soul. Could you just grab that large cup over there that shoots acid, since you're the heir of Hufflepuff, and not get burned, then be on your way with not explanation what so ever."

"I thought you'd be helping with this!"

"I'm trying!" sighed Hermione. She leaned her head on Harry's shoulder, and he wrapped her in a soft hug. She sighed again. "It's just so frustrating!" He gently brushed some hair out of her eyes, and kissed her on the forehead.

"Don't worry," he replied, placing his cheek on the top of her head. "We always find a way. This time won't be any different."

"_Of course_ it won't," said Ron snidely.

"Shut up, Ron," chorused the siblings.

* * *

"Um . . . Professor Wood?"

Oliver swallowed his immediate groan and turned to the short Gryffindor tugging at the bottom of his robes. His second week back at this school, and he was ready to curse the bloody midgets into oblivion.

"Yes . . . Evan?" he asked, finally remembering the minuscule student's name.

"Well, sir, you asked me to watch the class" – he'd chosen Evan at random, mostly because the boy seemed the rule-abiding, snitching type that every teacher adored – "and, well, Jenny and James Heckle are fighting again . . ."

This time, Oliver didn't bother to stifle his groan.

Of course. The moment he disappeared into his office to find some broom oil, the two of them would be back at it.

Cutting off the plump first year, Oliver exited his office and walked quickly across the field to the huddle that was eerily familiar to his first day. He sped up in anticipation of what awaited him.

"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

The scream echoed, it's pitch abnormally high, around the open pitch.

By the screaming, he'd expected Marberry to be on the receiving end of the worse of the fight, but it turned out that Heckle was not finally getting the better of the girl. The Slytherin was screaming like a girl.

"Get off me you bloody harpy!"

"You take it back, and I will!"

"Take back that you're an ugly Mudblood? I shouldn't have to take back the truth."

"Fine! Don't!"

There was the sound of a fist hitting flesh.

"AHHHH!"

"Say you take it back!"

Gargling noise.

"_Fight her, Heckle! She's just a little Gryffindor!_"

"AHHHH!"

"**_Take. It. Back._**"

"Never!"

The same wet slap.

"AHHHH!"

Oliver parted the group circling the pair with ease, finding the petite Marberry slamming Heckle (who had at least six inches on her) into one of the school's walls at the center.

"Oi! Break it up!" he ordered, and, grimacing, Marberry backed up, letting Heckle collapse to the ground in a heap.

She turned on her heel, wiping sweat off her brow, not seeing Heckle suddenly raise and jump her from behind, pushing her to the ground and her face in the dirt.

Marberry used her elbows to flip herself, and thus Heckle, on their backs. The air knocked out of him, she used her left elbow to hit him in the stomach and a second later the right into his nose. When he let go of her neck to clutch his nose, she turned so she was on top of him again, and pummeled her fist into his mouth.

Although he was enjoying the familiar sight of blood spilling over Slytherin robes, Oliver decided that, as a teacher, he was going to have to pull them apart.

"Break it up," he repeated with less enthusiasm, and, by the neck of her robes, pulled Marberry off. He flashed back to his first lesson, and saw the same snarl crossing her face as it was now. He returned to the present as Marberry waved a bloody third finger at the groaning Heckle. "Die, Heckle!"

"I think he's already doing that," muttered Oliver just loud enough that she could hear, and shot her a wink. In a louder voice he continued, "All right, both of you report to my office tonight, seven o'clock."

He appointed the same tall Slytherin to escort Heckle to the infirmary, and sent Marberry off with one of her friends to the girls bathroom to wash off the Slytherin's blood.

"Alright, lesson's over," he said, deciding that he didn't want to deal with the students now. "Back to your common rooms. Go on, then."

Unable to believe their good luck, the first years scurried off to their respective common rooms, whispering about the fight. He knew that it would be over the school in an hour. Now having to come up with a detention, Oliver walked in the direction of his office.

He was starting to regret his actions of the night before, in the library, and was seriously debating whether or not to throw himself off the top of the Astronomy Tower.

"Dammit," he said softly, rubbing his eyes. Maybe a few laps around the pitch would clear his mind.

"Professor?"

"_What the bloody hell do you want_?" he snarled, whipping around, and regretting it. "Sorry. Can I help you?"

"Oh," the figure laughed. "Yes, yes you could."

The person in front of him raised their wand, and said clearly, "_Suvrex Oublis_."

Oliver froze. He wondered for a second why the person was saying this spell – it made the recipient follow orders without remembering the caster – and a cold knot in his stomach formed when he realized that it was meant for him.

Then the bolt of yellow light hit him, spreading through his veins.

"Find your sister." It was whispered. "Bring her back here."

* * *

Concluding that they could do nothing, the Trio went to bed at two, and woke up five hours later, cranky.

Not feeling up to the challenge of Malfoy, Hermione slept in her old bed in the girl's dormitory. When she awoke, Lavender and Parvati were staring at her.

"What are _you_ doing here?" asked Lavender, not fully recovered from the Won-Won break-up.

"Shove it," mumbled Hermione, getting out of the bed and going down into the common room to Floo to her bedroom.

Harry, Hermione and Ron met again in the Great Hall over dry toast, oatmeal, and fatty acids.

"What are we going to do?" asked Ron, shoveling a eggs, bacon and cheese into his mouth. Hermione grimaced, and took a delicate bite of her toast.

"Well," she said once she had finished chewing, "There's not much I can do today. I have classes all day."

"Tonight then," decided Harry, spooning up some oatmeal.

The only class of the day that they shared was Potions, before lunch. Harry and Ron came from a free period, and Hermione came from Arithmancy.

She came into the classroom trying to take out her Potions book without letting any of the others fall out. Harry and Ron were already there, sitting next to each other, forcing her to sit with Terry Boot.

Annoyed, she forced a brief smile to Terry, and finally succeeded at taking out her Potions text.

It was ten minutes into the period before they realized anything was wrong – they were missing Snape. "Where is he?" whispered Ron across the table to Hermione, incorrectly assuming that she would know everything, as per usual.

"How should I know?" she whispered back.

"Sorry," he replied, not looking at all very apologetic.

After another five minutes of terse silence, as everyone wondered what happened to their greasy teacher, the door opened . . . to reveal Professor Every.

Her black hair was pulled back today, in a green clip, and she moved to the teacher's desk at the front of the room. "Hello, class," she said, turning to face them. "Unfortunately, Professor Snape found himself unable to attend his class. For today, I'll be standing in for him."

Although the class did not vocally burst into cheers, the tension lightened quite a bit.

"We'll be making Doxy Vanquishing Potions today," continued Every, turning to the board and scribbling a loopy hand the ingredients. "I know it's a bit complicated, but it's about the only potion I know how to make."

There was scattered laughter.

"And seeing as you all are a NEWT class, I figured it's be good practice."

The class spent the rest of the period making their best attempt at the complicated potion Every had chosen. Not surprisingly, Hermione did the best. An hour later she happily finished stirring her potion, having produced the correct turquoise color and wispy texture.

"Perfect," announced Every, wandering up to their table. "If you just spoon some up and put the flask on Professor Snape's desk, you can clean up." Hermione complied, and spent the remainder of her time chopping up Harry's mericander root and showing Ron how he was not stirring properly.

They left the dungeons and entered the Great Hall in silence. Once they had sat down and chosen their food, Harry asked, "Tonight, before or after Astronomy?"

Hermione thoughtfully finished her a bite of her beer-battered fish, and replied, "After dinner, before Astronomy."

For once, Ron didn't talk with his mouth full. He nodded.

"Good," decided Hermione.

After dinner they lingered in the Great Hall, waiting until most of the students had left. Hermione, with her Head Girl privileges, disappeared into the Hufflepuff dormitories. Ron and Harry took the map and the Invisibility Cloak to the Trophy Room to stake out the cup.

Striding off with certainty that she didn't feel, Hermione turned a corner and Harry and Ron vanished.

Up ahead, she saw Every walking into her office. Pausing, Hermione slipped behind a suit of armor. She heard the door lock, and then carefully peeked around the helmet.

The professor was nowhere to be seen, and her office door was closed.

Hermione quietly ran past it, and turned three more corners before she found the Hufflepuff dormitories.

Taking a deep breath to steady herself, she said the password (_Norgu_) and stepped into the Hufflepuff common room. It was full of Hufflepuffs. All conversation halted.

"Is Rose Wood here?" she asked.

There was silence, and she repeated her question.

Still no answer. She had begun to debate whether or not to threaten them all with detentions and loss of house points when she got her answer. "She left with her brother a couple minutes ago," replied a blonde girl reading _Witch Weekly_.

"Thanks," said Hermione, then left.

Something was wrong here.

She took a differently path to the Trophy Room, not wanting to see Every, and found Harry and Ron running towards her.

"Hermione!" Harry yelled. She shushed him, and the three met in the middle of the corridor.

"The cup . . ." panted Ron. "It's . . . gone . . ."

"Rose too," replied Hermione. "Something was up. No one would tell me where she was. They said that she left with her brother when they got back from dinner."

"You don't think that Wood has something to do with this, do you?" asked Harry, shocked.

Hermione thought about it. "No, I don't. But it's a possibility we have to think of."

"I agree," said Ron. "No way it was Wood – but still, she would've known if it was Polyjuice, wouldn't she?"

"Malfoy didn't know in second year," pointed out Harry.

"Yeah, well, Malfoy's never been the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree," replied Hermione. "I get the impression Rose was at least slightly more intelligent."

"Still, someone must've gotten to Rose before we did," said Ron, "and gotten her to take the cup, because it is most definitely not there."

"Did you check the map?" asked Hermione.

"No," said Harry, taking it out of his bag. "We didn't think of that."

Seconds later the map was being frantically searched. They ignored the Trophy Room, which was flashing red like crazy, and finally Hermione found Rose and Oliver in a third floor corridor. "Oh my god," she said, pointing. "They're parallel to us!"

The two dots were still, a blinking red dot labeled _Hufflepuff's Cup_ between them. Harry folded the map in a half-hazard fashion, creating new creases, and the three ran at full speed, wands out, to the corridor holding them.

They turned the finally corner wands outstretched, and found two dazed-looking siblings, sitting on the ground. Hufflepuff's cup was sitting between them.

"Don't move!" screamed Harry.

Behind them, Hermione could see two shadows advancing around the corner, one tale and male-looking, one shorter and definitely female. They froze at Harry's voice, then retreated.

She sprinted past Oliver and Rose, and swung around the corner. The long corridor was empty of both life and doors.

Sighing, she returned to Harry and Ron, who had their wands pointed at Oliver and Rose. Behind them, Hermione tapped Oliver on the head with her wand. A small sliver of grey smoke rose from his head.

"He's been bespelled with _Suvrex Oublis_," she said. Then she moved onto Rose, who produced the same wisp of grey smoke.

"Her too."

"I thought you said she couldn't be forced."

"_Suvrex Oublis_ doesn't produce the same effect. I should've thought of that." Hermione stepped around the siblings, and, carefully, tapped the cup with her wand. No acid or puffs of smoke appeared.

"I think that Harry should take it," she decided.

"What about them?"

She turned to the dazed siblings.

"We can levitate them to their rooms, and they'll wake up the next morning without ever knowing what happened."

They did so, and Harry reached for the cup. His hand paused for a minute, hovering over the cup, then he forced his hand to the handle of the cup.

Nothing happened.

"I wonder who did this," said Harry, lifting the surprisingly light cup.

Hermione grabbed his bag off the floor. "Wouldn't we like to know."

* * *

Please, review. Think of me, snowed in by this huge storm, and without any reviews . . . . 


	17. THE SILVER FRAME

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH  
HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH  
HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

Sorry.

I feel a lot better now.

Anyway . . . sorry on how long it took me to update. I had this sitting here, waiting to be updated, but I went completely spaz and thought I'd already put this one up, and I had to write another one.

Also, there's been a lot of drama in my life right about now. I feel completely screwed over.

So I'd like to dedicate this chapter . . . I'm not sure if I can do this . . . but whatever.

_For Evan._

Chapter Seventeen: The Silver Frame

* * *

"I hate it. I hate it, hate it, hate it."

"Oh, come on, Luna."

"No! I don't want to hide it anymore!"

"And what are you going to tell all of them, about how we've been seeing each other for all summer!"

"Why do we have to wait?"

"Because we do! Now isn't a good time!"

"I'm starting to think there never _will_ be a good time."

* * *

With the cup of Hufflepuff secure in Dumbledore's deserted office, Harry and Ron snoring (probably loudly) in the boy's dormitory, and Malfoy no where to be seen, Hermione finally had time to herself.

Time to think.

Thinking – which consisted of what she now classified as the Two Kisses – was proving a dangerous pastime. As she lay on her back in the canopied bed, watching the moonlight etch patterns on the wall opposite the bay windows, her hand unconsciously rose to touch her lips.

In the hospital, when she'd seen the blurred, tall figure dash out of the room, she'd immediately leapt to the completely justifiable conclusion that Ron had kissed her. And now . . . now she didn't know; things were changing.

There was absolutely no way that it could've been Ron in the library – even Ron couldn't take twenty minutes to 'go to the loo' – and that narrowed the field of possibilities considerably.

In fact, the field was now so narrow that it contained no names.

A small knot of pre-migraine pain began to throb behind her eyebrows. She rubbed it hard with her fingertips, grinding the heel of her palms in her closed eyelids to relieve two pains at once. Neither disappeared, and she gave up.

Hermione groaned, and tossed off the heavy comforter. Beneath it, her legs had tangled in the filmy nightgown, her limbs bonded to the material by sweat.

"Who are you?" she asked aloud, loudly enough that her question echoed ominously. _I'm turning into Mrs. Weasley,_ she thought sadly.

This thought, the one of 'Mrs. Weasley' brought her attention back to Ron . . . and the kisses. In the hospital, she'd been so sure of her assailant's identity that she hadn't considered anyone else. Attempting to figure out who would have had access to both her hospital room and the Hogwarts library, she realized that no one did – other than Ron and Harry, both of whom she had already exonerated.

She decided that maybe vocalization would help her organize her thoughts. "It can't be Ron," she said. "So who could it be?"

Repeating her question wasn't helping. She bit her lip, thinking furiously.

Wait.

There _was_ one more possibility.

But it was too ridiculous to even entertain.

"No way," she snapped, swinging her legs off the bed and storming to the bay windows illuminated by the moonlight. She opened the doors with the full force of her confusion and anger, and stalked out onto the balcony, letting the cold wind pull the nightgown away from her legs.

On the balcony she paced back and forth, her eyes looking over the snow-covered grounds, her mind a thousand miles away. "It can't be him," she argued with herself. "Why would _he_ kiss _me_?" However much her gut said no, it made sense logically. He really was the only one that was with her at the hospital and still had access at Hogwarts.

"Dammit!" she yelled.

For all that her logical mind told her that it made sense, she knew instinctively that he would _never_ go around kissing girls. He had the world at his feet, for Merlin's sake – why would he sneak around, blinding know-it-all Head Girls who talked too much, just to snog them senseless.

Oh.  
He was bored.

It came to her in a flash. Of course! There was no other explanation – he was bored of Hogwarts, so he decided to have some fun.

Bastard.

As she grit her teeth, determined to plan a course of revenge, she involuntarily flashed on the kiss in the library.

_It was as if she had stuck an electric current into her mouth and flipped the switch. But it was softer than that . . ._

Her anger began to melt.

_And when someone's hands, calloused, gently rubbed her cheek, she closed her eyes and, dropping the scroll, wrapped her arms around that someone's neck._

He wasn't that bad a person.

_His hands had left her cheek, and were on the small of her back, pressing her closer._

Would he really mess with someone's emotions?

_She gladly complied, molding her frame against his, pulling his neck down, and arching her own to deepen this maddening kiss which seemed to be lasting forever._

Would he kiss her like that if he was bored?

"AHHHHHHHHHHH!" she screamed, clutching the metal railing of the balcony and throwing the full force of her back into it.

'Ahhhhhhhhhhh' seemed to sun up the situation quite nicely.

* * *

Vallorie Every had graduated the top of her class – even Head Girl.

She'd been accepted by every wizarding college she'd applied to – which were the fifteen most prominent of the wizarding world.

She'd been in love, she'd hated, she'd been jealous, infuriated, arrogant, bitchy, deliriously happy and so sad that she couldn't move.

And despite her numerous accomplishments, she sat in a dark office, tears in her eyes, almost forgotten by the world. She played barely a minor role in the events unfolding before her eyes – people like her were referred to as 'a footnote in history'.

_I wasn't supposed to be here. I was supposed to be safe. I was supposed to be with him. I was supposed to be . . ._

She shook herself mentally, wiping away the tears with stiff fingers.

Regrets would get her no where.

_Don't dwell in the past_, she told herself. _Put down the goddamn picture. Get up, get out of the dingy office and take a bath. _

She tried to unwind her fingers from their clutch on the picture frame, but she couldn't.

The only illumination in the room came from the tip of her wand, stuck, askew, between her knees. It was placed just so – if one was not Professor Every, one could not see the picture the heavy silver frame held.

_I'm sorry._

Dammit. There she was, dwelling in the past again.

Angrily, she shoved a hand across her face, streaking salty tears over her cheeks. A sob caught in her throat, and she refused to let it past.

_No matter how sorry I am, I won't let this rule me. It doesn't rule me._

She chanted the mantra continuously until she was mouthing the words. It came out in a harsh whisper. "You don't rule me anymore."

God, how much she wished it was true.

If one was in a high, seclude corner by the ceiling, directly above Professor Every's elbow, one could almost catch the flash of a bright smile, and wedding band on a hand flouncing a full white skirt.

* * *

"What are you thinking about, mate?" inquired Ron sleepily. He'd woken to a soft glow coming from his best friend's curtained bed. Seamus snored heavily.

"Nothing," came the murmured reply, and for perhaps the only empathic moment in his life, Ron sensed that this was something to be left alone.

"'Night," he said, and rolled on his side to go back to sleep.

Inside the glowing bed, with a wand stuck between his knees, Harry was looking at a picture on his lap.

They were by the lake, the four of them. Harry, Ginny, Hermione and Ron. All four laughing. He remembered how they'd caught Colin snapping pictures and he and Ron had bullied the film out of him. Ginny had extracted the promise that they'd burned it, but Harry was unable to.

All four laughing, all four with their books strewn about, resting on the rocks by the lake. When they'd first settled, the Giant Squid had been playing a game of Patty Cake with itself. Hermione had, for the first time, clapped her hands in joy.

They had, for the afternoon, forgotten their worries. The major ones – Voldemort, Death Eaters – and the minor ones – Snape's Potions essay.

With a sad look in his eye, he watched the Ginny in the photograph pull Pictured Harry in for a dazzling kiss. With a giggle, she pushed him away, but they watched each other. Pictured Hermione rolled her eyes dramatically and returned to _Hogwarts, A History_ perched in her lap.

Pictured Ginny, with a wicked grin, whispered something in Pictured Harry's ear that made him turn bright pink.

Pictured Hermione smacked Pictured Ron on the head with her heavy volume. The second redhead was scrambling through his books, before sighing as he found the Potions text. Pictured Hermione gave off another world-class eye roll.

Pictured Ginny poked Pictured Hermione on the side. When the brunette turned to her, the redhead stuck out her tongue and waggled her fingers. Harry watched Pictured Hermione turn red, and her eyes glimmer for a minute. Then Pictured Harry tugged on Pictured Ginny's arm, and the two went back to snogging.

He hadn't noticed before, any resentment between Hermione and Ginny. There had been a few snide comments the year before, but the summer at the Burrow had been remarkably smooth. Could he have missed something?

At that point, Hermione, had she been there (and privy to his thoughts) would have pointed out that boys generally had very bad observational skills, teenaged boys especially.

Harry couldn't help a small smile.

He had been able to avoid the thoughts of Ginny over the past few days because they were so chock-full. He'd been settling into school, and then Hermione discovered the hiding place of the second . . . no, third, horcrux.

Now, rather like his twin, if he'd known, he was dwelling on past kisses.

And laughs.

And, for a moment, he was remembering the look on her face as he'd told her that he was breaking it off. Under the resentment and flickering emotions had he seen . . . relief?

No. Impossible.

"Ginny," he whispered, stroking a finger down the face of Pictured Ginny, who laughed silently and pulled Pictured Harry into another mind-blowing kiss.

* * *

On the other side of Hogwarts, Oliver slowly woke. His tongue was fuzzy for some inexplicable reason, and his head felt like Gred and Forge had set a few fireworks loose inside.

_Fred and George_, he reminded himself.

In felt like he had been zapped with a pretty nasty curse or two, or maybe hit over the head with a broomstick.

None of this, however, made any sense.

Because he couldn't remember anything strange happening the day before.

* * *

The next day at breakfast, the Golden Trio convened.

"Fuck off," groaned Ron as Parvati attempted to ask him to pass the waffles. Sniffling with indignation, she whirled around in the other direction.

"Really Ron," snapped Hermione. "Language."

Parvati shot her a withering look of disgust, which Hermione ignored, scooping up some scrambled eggs.

"So . . ." said Harry. "What do you think we should do about the you-know-what in Dumbledore's office?" Hermione rolled her eyes.

"The cup?" she asked dryly. "We should wait until Dumbledore comes back to even attempt to research how to destroy it."

"I dunno," replied Ron. "Harry killed the journal without hurting himself; he could probably explode the cup."

Biting her tongue to keep herself from perfecting Ron's grammar, Hermione chose to do the adult thing. "Still . . . do we really want to risk it, only to have the thing melt Ron's head off with burning acid?"

"Well . . ." grinned Harry.

Ron tossed a forkful of tomato at him.

Harry returned a spoonful of his oatmeal, and they were about to begin a full-out fight of tomato vs. oatmeal when Luna appeared behind Harry and Hermione. "Hello, everyone," she said dreamily. "Lovely day, isn't it?"

Ron turned purple.

"Lovely," agreed Hermione, turning to survey the younger girl. "How are you doing?"

"Like a Red-Nosed Mifflekrug in the desert," Luna replied cryptically.

"Er . . . is that good or bad?" asked Harry, confused.

"Good." It came out, in a strangled voice, from Ron.

"Oh," said Harry, raising his eyebrows in a 'covert' glance between him and Hermione. "Right. Of course."

There was a crash behind the siblings, and they turned in time to see a snarling Malfoy hit Luna with his shoulder, spinning the blonde girl in a veritably pirouette as he stalked by. Her bag split at the seams, her books tumbling out.

Hermione bent to help, and was reaching under Harry's legs to reach a Charms text covered in old _Quibbler_ magazine covers when her hand brushed something smaller. She pulled out a small, gold necklace. The writing was a bit curly, but she could make out two intertwined L's on the front of what seemed to be a locket.

"Oh, Luna, this is beautiful," she said, holding it out.

For possibly the first time in her life, Luna turned pink. "Thank you," she whispered, grabbing the necklace and quickly fastening it around her neck. With a wand wave her bag was back together, and she took her books away from Hermione. "Bye."

"Good-bye," said Hermione cheerfully. As she returned to her plate, she raised an eyebrow. "Think Luna has an admirer?" she asked, grinning.

"Ooooh," supplied Harry.

Ron was still an unnatural color, and Hermione reached forward to feel his forehead. "Ron, are you alright?" He didn't have a fever, but jerked away from Hermione's hand.

"Fine."

He was gazing past her, at the Ravenclaw table, and a certain blonde. Harry and Hermione exchanged another 'covert' glance.

* * *

When Hermione returned to her rooms before lunch to drop off her texts, she found a small, folded square of parchment under the door. She juggled her bag and texts for a moment, before giving up and dropping both of them to pick it up.

The paper was heavy and thick – good quality. At the top was the Hogwarts crest. Her heart sank – it was available in any teacher's office. No way of telling who sent it. Before reading what was written, she tapped it. No traces. The single line was scribbled in black ink.

_I'm sorry for the library._

"I can't believe it," she whispered, stunned. The paper trembled in her fingers. "Why sent this? And who on earth would apologize for something as mind-blowing as that kiss?"

"Talking to yourself again, Potter?" sneered a voice behind her. Not deeming to acknowledge his presence with a reply, Hermione stalked into her rooms. She dropped her books and bag on the bed, then sank onto the chair by the desk. She put the letter on the desk in front of her.

"Who are you?" she asked. The letter, unsurprisingly, didn't answer. "And are you apologizing for kissing me at all . . . or for taking advantage of me?"

She picked up the rest of her books and her bag and left her room. On second thought, she turned and locked the door.

She took the stairs at a quick pace, her bag thumping against her side, and screeched to a stop at the bottom of the staircase. Malfoy was lounging on the portrait hole, blocking her exit. "I think it's time we talk, Potter," he drawled, gazing at her with disinterest.

"I don't," she replied, and attempted to get by. Her fellow Head, who was 6'2" and had five inches on her, didn't have to move to get in her way. She thought seriously about biting him.

"Well, I do. Take a seat, Potter," he said, gesturing to the closest of the leather couches; she refused silently, crossing her arms and glaring.

"I have ten minutes, Malfoy," she snapped irritably.

"You have as long as I say you have," he replied effortlessly. "You don't have to sit. But I think you should know that there's something going on at Hogwarts that you don't want to be involved in."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Are you being purposely obscure?"

"Just shut up and listen, Potter. I don't have to tolerate you – hell, I don't like you. But I hate my father more than you. And lately the Potters have been of far too much interest to him. If warning you means that I'm fucking my father, I'll warn you; regardless of my personal feelings."

"Warn me about what?"

"Be careful."

Finishing dramatically with those cryptic words, Malfoy pushed himself off the edge of the portrait hole and sauntered up to his room. Hermione was confused and stunned. Someone apologizing for kissing her? Malfoy actually being human?

Shaking herself, she continued on her way to lunch.

* * *

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	18. DESTRUCTION OF A HORCRUX

AHHHHH!  
Okay.

So I'm finally updating.

EVERYBODY REJOICE!

P.S. Yes, I know it's short. But I wanted to get it out so you can see that yes, I DO KNOW WHERE THIS PLOT IS GOING.

Chapter Eighteen: The Destruction of the Horcrux

* * *

The spy of Voldemort watched two giggling Hufflepuffs with the sort of fascinated disdain that spiders have for fruit flies.

She gently clicked her fingers on the desktop, feeling the sound vibrate through her fingertips up her hand. She extended the pale hand flat, pressing her palm into the tabletop, noticing the contrast between the black of the table and the creamy china tone of her skin.

She placed the other hand, palm up, on the table. These fingers were curled up slightly, and nestled in her palm was the necklace.

The gold locket was almost vibrating with energy. It looked safe enough, lying on the curled, delicate chain, with her initials carved. But she could feel the power through her hand.

She'd only worn it once since the moment Draco had put it on her neck – she'd returned to her dorm and taken it off immediately. They'd had a rendezvous a few nights later, and she knew that he wanted to see the gold gleaming against her skin. If she hadn't, there would have been consequences.

It wasn't exactly that he abused her. Hardly. Voldemort's spy was made of something far stronger than an average woman. She would never tolerate abuse.

But he liked certain things – when she wore pearl earrings, or the necklace, and when she found a spot that was secluded, but still near enough to people that it added a hint of excitement.

And when he didn't get them, he would make it hurt a little.

But Voldemort's spy was very good at controlling Draco. He could ignore her, pouting like a child, but when he came back to her, she could make him pay. Sometimes in pearls, sometimes in other little expensive trinkets.

Unwittingly, the spy allowed a small, almost predatory smile cross her lips.

"Why are you smiling?" asked Snape, then almost hissing her name. "Would you like to try this complicated potion?"

Another small smile flitted across her face, but she repressed mercilessly. "I'm sorry sir; I didn't know I was smiling."

He didn't look like he believed her, and settled for taking twenty points from her house. She forced herself to look angry and disappointed. He really thought that twenty points mattered? That house points mattered at all?

The thought made her laugh. She knew all about his double spy persona. She'd never ratted him out to Voldemort. For one thing, it was an incredibly childish thing to do. And for another – why should she, when she had amusement galore right here in front of her? How could she mock him if he were dead?

* * *

"Two weeks until Christmas break," sighed Ron happily.

"Two weeks of torture, and then we have . . . freedom," replied Harry.

"Free time," chimed in Ron.

"Quidditch time," added Harry.

They both grinned.

The Trio was sitting in the back of the Transfiguration classroom, beginning the research for their Animagi papers. Well . . . Hermione was beginning her research. Harry and Ron were flicking little balls of parchment at each other that flashed the colors of the rainbow. As she shook her head and bent over her paper, Harry positioned the ball between his thumb and forefinger and flicked it at the small circle Ron had formed with his own hands.

"You two are pathetic," she muttered.

_The female Bengal tiger is considered one of the largest feline creatures on the Earth, including the _

"Come on, Hermione," Ron said, grabbing the parchment from under her nose. "We have plenty of time to finish it. This is our last year at Hogwarts . . . you can relax, you know."

"And what is it that you consider 'relaxing'?" inquired Hermione, try to snatch her parchment back. "Slacking off?"

"No," replied Ron, pulling it out of her reach and smiling in what he supposed to be a rakish way. "Maybe . . . not being anal?"

"I'm not anal!" insisted Hermione indignantly. "I'm just concerned!"

"Is that what they're calling it these days?" asked Ron dryly.

"Not. Anal."

"I completely agree, Miss Potter." Hermione grabbed her parchment from Ron's lifeless fingers as he froze. "How is your essay coming, Mr. Weasley?" asked McGonagall, plucking Ron's parchment. "'Ron Weasley'. However stunning your prose is, I hope you realize that this essay should be fifty centimeters."

"I'm . . . researching," Ron mumbled, stuttering. "I haven't found much yet."

McGonagall, far too jaded a teacher to believe this, simply raised an eyebrow. "I'm sure that we could arrange for some detention time for you to . . . 'research'." Her tone told Ron that she wasn't falling for it.

"That's not necessary," he said quickly, picking up his quill. McGonagall turned to Harry, but he was writing diligently, turning the pages of his text and being careful not to look at her. She turned on her heel to badger a Hufflepuff whispering excitedly to her friends.

Hermione bent farther over her parchment, scribbling faster. She'd pushed the kisses to the back of her mind, a part that was gathering cobwebs from disuse. There, like a new book in a secluded corner of a library, she hoped that it would gather dust and vanish.

Because Hermione was beginning to fear that she was _falling in love_ with the someone that had kissed her. And anything that was that ridiculous needed to be put aside. Immediately.

Without even realizing it, Hermione had begun writing _I am not in love_. She hurriedly tapped the parchment with her wand to erase the sentiment, and returned to her research.

"Shit!" Hermione looked up to see Ron's elbow smack into his ink pot. As if in slow motion she watched if spill over her parchment.

"Ron!" she shrieked, then calmed herself enough to tap a spell. She pushed her wand over her parchment, and the ink was sucked up inside.

* * *

Harry, Ron and Hermione skipped lunch, instead traversing up to Dumbledore's office. He had returned for a night a few times, but they had always found out too late; by the time they got to his office, he would be gone. This time, they'd seen him enter the castle during Transfiguration, and were sure to catch him.

"Twizzlers," whispered Harry to the gargoyle, and they climbed the staircase to the headmaster's office. At this knock, a faint reply came, and they entered.

Professor Dumbledore sat at his desk, the cup of Hufflepuff before him on his desk. "Ah," he said. "Hello everyone. I suppose you've come about the cup."

They nodded.

"I think this will take a while. Would anyone care for a cup of tea?" All three accepted, and Dumbledore was about to stand when Hermione remembered his withered hand. "I'll get it, Professor."

She rummaged through his tea things, pouring with her hand while her wand twitched and cream and sugar poured. She was back in a few minutes.

"Ron, cream and sugar," she gestured with her wand and the teacup went sailing off to him. "Harry, just cream," and off went his. "Professor, sugar and lemon," and the first of the last two cups bobbled across the desk, pausing at Hufflepuff's cup, not quite sure which direction to take. Hermione prodded it to the left, and she settled down with her own cup with just lemon.

"Now," began Dumbledore, after taking a sip, and nodding at Hermione. "I suppose you all want to know how to get rid of this."

"Yes," said Harry, spokesperson for the Trio.

"I have no idea," replied Dumbledore, settling into his high-backed chair. "I only managed the ring with significant bodily harm to myself."

Hermione had anticipated this, but it was clear from Ron and Harry's expressions that they had not. "I suppose we'll just brainstorm then?" she asked. Dumbledore didn't reply, but the twinkle in his eyes encouraged her.

There was silence, and with a sigh Hermione realized that she was going to have to start it all. "All right. Harry, you destroyed Riddle's diary with a Basilisk's fang. Unfortunately, we don't have one handy."

"Was it the fang, or the poison?" asked Ron in a remarkable moment of intelligence. "If it was just the poison, Snape's got a whole collection of them down in the dungeon."

"I think it was a combination," mused Harry. "If it was the fang, then any ceremonial knife would do. And if it was the poison, then just any old poison would do as well. And the basilisk has ties to Voldemort. He can destroy the horcruxes himself, and the basilisk is just an extension of himself."

"And so are you, Harry," pointed out Hermione. "The scar ties you to him. If we could find a spell or a fang, it would be you who should do it. Dumbledore's hand was hurt because he doesn't have a smidge of Voldemort in him." The three students had completely forgotten the presence of the Headmaster, who stirred his tea thoughtfully.

"So we need something of Voldemort's to destroy the horcrux," summed up Ron slowly. "But other than a basilisk fang, what could be used that is Voldemort's?"

Hermione bit her lip, and dropped her eyes to her lap, where her cooling teacup lay nestled in her hands, her wand on her lap. Her wand.

"Wand," said Hermione at the same time as Harry. Ron looked confused.

"Harry's wand," said Hermione as Harry explained, "My wand."

He still looked confused, and Hermione took the reins. "Harry has the same wand as Voldemort. And after the duel in fourth year, their wands have an even deeper tie." Her mouth opened to an 'O'. "Oh! And I believe that I read somewhere that when twin wands have a duel, and they connect, like Harry and Voldemort's did, and souls are forced out, the wands exchange certain spells. Because the souls of Cedric and Harry's . . . my . . . our parents, were forced into the open, it's as if they are also partially in Harry's wand."

"So, what you're saying is that some of the spells that Voldemort did, to kill people, now exist in Harry's wand?" repeated Ron.

"Yes," replied Hermione, excited. "If Harry uses his wand to destroy the horcrux, then that should be enough of Voldemort for it to work successfully, with minimum harm."

Finally, Dumbledore decided to intervene. "And what spell shall you do, Harry?"

The mood plummeted as if he'd stuck a pin into it. "I hadn't thought about that," said Harry.

"Dammit," muttered Ron, and Hermione reached across Harry sitting in the middle to slap him on the arm. Dumbledore grinned into his tea despite himself.

"What spell did you use, Professor?" asked Hermione when she'd settled back into her seat.

"A combination of many, only a little of which I can remember."

Harry and Ron sighed, sadly. But Hermione was biting her lip again. She was thinking back to her years of science in school before Hogwarts.

"_Shit!" Hermione looked up to see Ron's elbow smack into his ink pot. As if in slow motion she watched if spill over her parchment. "Ron!" she shrieked, then calmed herself enough to tap a spell. She pushed her wand over her parchment, and the ink was sucked up inside._

"Sir, what's Hufflepuff's cup made out of?"

"Silver, I believe," replied Dumbledore. "And lead." He raised an eyebrow. "May I enquire as to why you wish to know this?"

"I have an idea," said Hermione slowly.

* * *

That night, after dinner, a pass clutched in Hermione's hand, the three traveled out of the school, across the grounds, and out to the large rock stuck out into the lake hidden by the curve of the Forbidden Forest. There, Dumbledore stood, his robes dyed black by the inky darkness, gently swished by a sparse wind.

"Ah," he said, without turning. "There you are."

Hufflepuff's cup was sitting on the rock beside him, almost glowing. Dumbledore stepped off the rock, and gazed at the Trio. Hermione held her and Ron's wands and the pass, while Ron held a large pile of firewood, and matches, and Harry simply had himself and his wand.

Having already been directed in what he should do, Ron set the firewood in a circle, stacking the rectangular logs as if creating a circular tower. Once he was done, he and Hermione exchanged the matches and the wands. Dumbledore set the cup inside the circle, the top hidden under the tall tower and Hermione stepped forward to strike the matches.

The kindling ignited, and Hermione moved around the circle, striking matches, placing them on the tower then moving on. Once she was done, she stepped back and took her wand from Ron. Quietly, she placed a shield around it that kept the fire, smoke and heat in, while letting oxygen in as well.

Then they waited, watching the fire grow hotter and hotter, until the logs were gone, and the cup remained as a silvery puddle of intensely hot liquid. Hermione, tired, let the shield go, and there was a blast of heat. Quickly, Harry stepped forward, breathing into the sleeve of his shirt, and set his wand near the liquid. In his mind, he thought of the spell that Hermione used to mop up Ron's stray ink whenever he spilled it on his essays.

Like a vacuum cleaner, the hot liquid was sucked up into his wand. Once it was done, his wand began to buck and twist and heat in his hand, and he dropped it on the rock. He stepped back, between Ron and Hermione, watching as his wand expanded and shrunk and grew red from heat.

Hermione slipped her hand into his and squeezed. At the end they had to hide their faces from the heat.

When it cooled, they turned. The obscuring smoke was cleared by a small, swirling breeze, and lying on the rock in a circular lump of ash with a few dying embers was his wand, back to its originally smooth, pale wood.

No one said anything, but they were all thinking it.

_We did it. We destroyed a horcrux_.

* * *

The next morning, tired and still a little stained with soot, the Trio appeared at breakfast. They were all quiet, but there was an air of excitement underneath their emotions. Once they had all caught up on sleep, there would be a celebration with some butterbeer Dobby had stashed in the kitchen and chocolate cake.

Hermione spread jelly on her eggs and poured salt on her toast before realizing what she was doing. Grimacing, she switched her plate with the empty one next to her, and started over. This time, she buttered her sausage and ladled gravy on her bagel. She bit into her bagel, and then gagged.

With a cry of frustration, she pushed aside her second plate, and settled for tea.

Harry and Ron weren't faring much better – Ron had put ketchup on his bacon and was eating it mournfully without noticing the taste; Harry's oatmeal was sporting a small square of cheese in the center which he had yet to become aware of.

It would have been hilarious if they weren't so tired.

When the post arrived, Hermione was about to set aside her _Daily Prophet_ for later reading when she saw the cover. In disbelief, she opened the spread.

**DIGGORY BROTHERS KILLED IN DEATH EATER ATTACK**

Hermione scanned the article as murmurs spread across the Great Hall.

Gregory and Charles Diggory, both 45, were killed late last night when Death Eaters attacked their home. Charles Diggory's wife, Amanda, was also killed, and Gregory's wife, Harriet, has yet to be found.

Both men are well-known for their Ministry work on the relations with giants. They were preparing for a speech, meant for next Monday, which would encourage the Minister and his counselors to consider repairing human and giant relations.

"They were so dedicated," said a source inside the Ministry which declined to be named. "It's so hard to believe that they're dead. Why would the Death Eater's attack them?"

The brothers, still raw from the death of their nephew, Cedric Diggory, who died three years ago at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry during the Triwizard Tournament by the hand of He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named, had vowed to fight alongside the Ministry.

Quite a few investigators are making connections between the Diggorys and the Abbot family, killed earlier this year.

As far as anyone knows, the attack happened at midnight last night, while the neighborhood was mostly asleep. The brothers' houses are directly across the street from each other, and so far there has been no sign of anyone else being attacked. However, there is a slight chance _see **Brothers** pg. Q7_

Hermione handed the paper to Harry, who, after reading the headline, showed it to Ron. "They're right on one thing though," Harry said. "Why would Voldemort be after the Diggory brothers?"

"Well, they're both in the Order, along with their wives," replied Hermione, who took a bracing sip of tea. "Harriet, the one who's missing, always came dressed in purple, remember? She's the one who smashed a Pumpkin Pasty into Mrs. Black's face."

They remembered the hilarious incident. "But how can he know about the Order members? First the Abbots, then the Diggorys?"

"Well," said Hermione, "Would Voldemort really want us improving relations with the giants? Not if he could get them first."

"That doesn't explain the Abbots though," pointed out Ron. "If he was killing off Ministry members, how likely is it that the only ones are also in the Order?"

"Do you think Snape's feeding him the names?" asked Harry. Ron began to heartily agree, but Hermione interrupted.

"It couldn't have been. Snape's one of the top levels of the Order – he would know that Amos Diggory is in it too. And Amos lives directly next door to his brother Charles. If someone's feeding the names to Voldemort, they have to be so low that they don't know about Amos Diggory."

"So now the question is," finished Harry. "Who's the spy?"

* * *

BUM-BUM-BUM-BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA.

So.

I killed a horcrux.

And if this doesn't make sense, let me explain. They melted the cup at intense temperatures, keeping the heat in with Hermione's shield. Then Harry let his wand soak it up, like Hermione does when Ron spills ink on his essays. Harry's wand fought the liquid, but because it had strains of Voldemort in it, the wand won.

Right.

So you can review now.

EVEN IF IT'S TO TELL ME I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT I'M DOING, SCIENTIFICALLY.

And I'm so sorry that I killed off almost all of the Diggory family. It had to be done.


	19. THE REVENGE OF THE GHOST

Disclaimer: Oh my gosh! I've never done one for TOPC before! Coolio! So, I don't own ANYTHING. Except the ghost, who is TOTALLY KICK-A$$.

**Author's Note: **Okay, I begin this chapter with a note-passing sequence, and even though I give clues to everybody's identity, here's who it is: **Harry**, _Hermione_, Ron. And all of them use underlines to emphasize their points.

So read.

And review.

Chapter Nineteen: The Revenge of the Ghost

* * *

**Are you packed?**

_Harry, you know she'll catch us! McGonagall isn't as stupid as you think she is._

**So . . . are you packed?**

No. You?

**No.**

_Harry!_

Take a chill pill, Hermione.

_Don't get me started on you, Ronald! Honestly! We're leaving in three days for Christmas vacation, and you haven't gotten a single piece of your essay done. It is due the Monday we come back, you know._

We have all of vacation.

_What do you mean, WE? Harry, you haven't . . . _

**Well, maybe I haven't started mine yet either.**

_Really! I should have known you two couldn't be trusted. I should have badgered you more often._

**When it comes to dark wizards, we're entirely trustable.**

_Too bad that doesn't work the rest of the time!_

Yeah, and what is it with this badgering stuff? Your badgering level is just fine right now.

_My badgering level?_

**Hermione, you've always known that Ron doesn't know proper English like you do.**

_Even so . . . badgering level?_

You should really try to be a bit more sympathetic, you know – seeing as of our joint plight and all.

_What plight?_

**Ron, shut up.**

_WHAT PLIGHT._

Our plight.

**RON.**

As in . . . Harry and my plight.

_Hah. A likely story._

Can I please tell her?

**No, you idiot. You can't. Don't worry, it's a pleasant surprise. We just promised we wouldn't tell you. For good reason, I now see.**

_If it's good, why did Ron call it a plight?_

**Ron isn't very fond of our surprise.**

_And you think I will?_

It's not like you and I agree on anything.

_Tell me what this plight of ours is, or I won't give you the answers to the questions we're supposed to be answering right now._

She drives a hard bargain.

**Hermione, we almost swore a blood oath not to tell you, honest to God. **

'_Almost' doesn't mean you actually did._

And you'll be happy. We promise. Aren't you the type who finds joy in others' misery, or something?

**Ron, that was not the way to go about doing this.**

What did I say?

_You two are despicable._

So . . . how about those answers?

* * *

The Great Hall of Lord Voldemort was quickly becoming infamous. As Wormtail stumbled his way down the center of it, to the imposing figure languorously, and a little oxymoronically, sprawled on the dais, he thought of this. To his left and right were sweeping arches that, under different circumstances, might have been seen as majestic.

But buried inside the walls were the bones of those unlucky few who had been sacrificed so the Great Hall would be properly warded. There had been blood in the mortar as well, and the grey stone was lined in a dusty brown. Torches, their flames shut in small houses of smoky glass and black iron, hung above each archway. Underneath the torches were pairs of thick, tall wooden doors, gated with iron and magic, each bolted securely. The wall towards which Wormtail was hobbling had no doors, only a single, larger archway that extended to the ceiling, to end in a pointed arch. Behind Wormtail, a final, even larger, pair of wooden doors was thrown open.

The dais was settled under the largest archway, twin torches to its left and right. They flickered, gently, but there was a shadow about Tom Riddle that even the brightest lights wouldn't have been able to extinguish. Other than the dais, the stone floor was devoid of any chair, rug, or stool. Death Eaters and lower minions were expected to stand.

"How are our plans progressing?" inquired Tom Riddle silkily, stroking the smooth arm of his chair with seeming nonchalance. The man known as Lord Voldemort was well aware that his minions thought of it as a throne, but he knew better. To have a throne, one needed power. Once he had a pint of the Potter brat's blood to pour over it . . . then it would become his throne.

For the moment, however, it was simply a chair.

"Wormtail?"

Peter Pettigrew jumped a few centimeters off the ground, and immediately began groveling. He recognized the impatient tone in his master's voice, implying that someone was going to be hurting soon.

"O, our, our plans?" stuttered Wormtail, his jaw shaking perceptively. Voldemort, used to having to deal with the absolutely ineffective Peter Pettigrew, didn't even deign to sigh. He did, however, allow himself the small pleasure of meeting Wormtail's eyes, and seeing the small man squirm.

"Yes, you imbecile," said Voldemort, his voice cold but detached. "Our _plans_."

"Tthhthey are progressing as, as you ininstructed," replied Wormtail quickly. He swallowed hard. Voldemort hadn't tortured anyone in a few days, and was most likely looking for a candidate.

"As I instructed, you say?" asked his master, drawing small bursts of joy from Wormtail's tormented expression.

"Yes, master," mumbled Wormtail.

"And the newest Potter brat?" continued Voldemort, returned to stroke the smooth wood of his chair. "Is she being watched?"

"Oof course," assured Wormtail, bobbing his head rapidly in assent. He swallowed again, wondering if the chicken he'd had for lunch would be his last meal, and how he'd rather it have been something more pleasant, such as veal marsala.

"Then get out," replied Voldemort with no real conviction, and Wormtail scrambled to comply, backing away quickly. "Close the doors," he added, knowing that his minion would forget unless reminded. Wormtail had, in fact, run out of usefulness and should have been disposed of a long time ago. All the same, the one thing Voldemort had learned during his decades-long battle against the Potter family was that loyalty should not be underestimated.

The doors were shut, clumsily and loud enough that Wormtail would have to be punished for it. Voldemort, restless, stood and stalked off the dais. It was unusual for him to be rattled this far into a scheme, but there was an air of finality about this one. His final, for when – not if – it succeeded, he would have swept the board clean. No Potters, no Dumbledore, no more of that infuriating Weasley clan that bred like rabbits on Muggle steroids.

It was, perhaps, just enough to make a man nostalgic. In an unfamiliar move, Voldemort chuckled to himself. He was still doing so, standing in the center of the Great Hall, when he heard it.

_Tommy_.

Voldemort hissed, and swiveled the right, the chuckle dead. The sickening endearment had come from his right, and yet there was no one there. He moved forward, looking at the next archway, and found the wooden doors wide open. A single source of light, a spare iron lantern, most likely, shed illumination of a sliver of stone a few meters down the corridor. It was held so that its bearer could not be seen.

"Who's there?" he demanded, and when there was no answer could feel his fury building. Years of power had made him used to his questions being answered immediately. Silence descended for a few moments, and then there was another playful, _Tommy_, and the lantern swung in circles to entice him.

Rage outweighed caution, and Voldemort stalked under the archway into the corridor. It was his castle, and whoever the hell was taunting him like this needed to be taught who was master. "Who's the hell are you?" he almost yelled, and this time there was no _Tommy_. Instead, the wooden doors slammed shut behind him.

Furious, Voldemort stalked towards the light at a brisk pace. He'd been walking for about thirty meters when his shoes began to make squelching noises. Disgusted, he continued onward, towards the light which had been previously moving. Now it had stopped, maybe ten meters away, and yet it was too dim for him to recognize anything.

With three powerful strides, Voldemort found the light bearer. He realized his mistake a split second too late, and when he turned to leave, hefty iron doors swung shut. Trembling, Voldemort turned to his guide.

_Tommy._

The purred voice, hauntingly familiar, would have been enough to recognize her, even if he hadn't seen the hungry eyes. She was a ghost, her clingy dress tattered at the base and the tips of her short sleeves frayed. The lace that had once framed china white skin was no more than mangy threads. One arm was extended outward and up at a forty-degree angle, so the lantern light illuminated not only the chamber but also her face.

Forty years as a ghost hadn't made her dark hair less thick and glorious, but her golden eyes were narrowed and sinister, her brows settled low over them in anger that had mellowed into a thirst for vengeance. A mother-of-pearl comb, one he recognized, held part of her hair off her face, and the golden pendant, another of his gifts, settled at the hollow of her neck.

The room would have been silent for those few evaluating moments if it hadn't been for steady, sticky _plop_s that sounded strangely like rain. She read his face with ease, and her mouth twisted into a smile that he also knew. She moved the lantern to her left, and the light exploded outward, illuminating the octagonal room.

Voldemort's mouth opened for a scream, a demand, a plea – anything but the silence that emerged.

From the highest recesses of the room, fell a steady torrent of sticky, dark drops that slipped down the wall like dew. There were spots in the stone where the drops were caught in the mortar, and gather ominously, before they fell in one singular, sinuous bead of despair.

Blood.

_Hello, Tommy._

Voldemort could feel the terror clawing at his throat, and he choked on the combination of fear and helplessness that swallowed him whole. He tried again to speak, but even as he opened his mouth, the words couldn't come. A high, keening note came from the back of his throat and he stifled it. "What do you want?" he asked his voice high and wavering.

Her lips curled cruelly at the corners, and her smile never reached her eyes. The thin streaks of blood like scratches of ink drew themselves down the wall at her back.

_What have I ever wanted, Tommy? _

"I'm sorry!" he shrieked, clawing at air. "I'm sorry!"

_That's just not good enough._

She raised her head back, so her neck was exposed, and the flesh where her pulse should have been throbbed rapidly, grossly distorted, as if there was sometime moving under it. The small lumps traveled upwards from her chest to her neck, combining into a sole bulge that twisted lithely. Her head titled forward again, and blood dripped from her left nostril, a drop poised at the curve of her lip.

_What do I want, Tommy?_

He didn't respond, but he instinctively knew the answer she wanted. She wanted him dead, and for him to die the same way she had. He had drowned her in the blood of innocents, and now she would do the same to him. In his silence, the bulge in her neck traveled upwards, disappeared at her jaw.

_WHAT DO I WANT, TOMMY?_

The blood erupted out of her mouth in a hideous display of gore. Her fury and his heightened terror brought him back to himself. Voldemort curled his fingers around the smooth wood of his wand, and, fingers trembling, blasted the doors. They withheld the first blow, but his immediate second set them exploding outwards. He didn't wait for the iron shards to settle before launching himself out of the octagonal room.

The darkened corridor stretched onward into oblivion, and Voldemort whispered a lighting spell to float ahead of him as he staggered into the blackness. He heard her harrowing scream as she realized he had escaped her clutches, and he ran faster.

His uneven steps echoed hollowly, and her shrieks grew louder and louder, until he finally saw the illuminated barred doors. They imploded at his first spell, and he skidded through the wooden splinters into his Great Hall, and she screamed again and again, unable to pass into his warded Hall.

Chest heaving, he took a few steps forward, and then turned to survey her. She was fading quickly now, her screams only echoes. He took some calming breaths, and watched as her voice finally died, and then she too became a mere shadow. Once she was completely gone, the lantern crashed to the floor. It blazed once, brightly enough that he had to shield his eyes, before it was extinguished.

* * *

"Hullo, Hermione!" The aforementioned black-haired girl twisted her head to the left to see Ginny leaned against the opened doorframe. There was a large smile scrawled over her face. Hermione, raising an eyebrow, turned from her open bag on the bed.

"To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?" asked Hermione, hands on her hips. Harry and Ron frequently visited her in the Head Girl dormitory, but she wasn't aware that Ginny even knew where they were. "And how did you get in?"

"I got the ferret on his way out," replied Ginny. "Blind luck I guess." She pushed herself off of the doorframe and walked calmly into the room. "And this unexpected pleasure is because I want to know what you're packing."

Hermione laughed. "Ginny, I've had Christmas at the Burrow before. I know how cold it can get." She folded a bulky cable-knit jumper and laid it in her suitcase to emphasize her point. "So really, you have nothing to worry about."

It was Ginny's turn to laugh. She gently nudged Hermione aside, and began to dig through Hermione's suitcase. Sniffing, she tossed the cable-knit jumper back into Hermione's bureau.

"Ginny!" shrieked Hermione, uncertain whether to lunge for the jumper or the redhead. "Ah! What do you think you're doing!"

"Please," snorted Ginny, ditching a particularly ugly brown shirt. "As if you don't know."

"Know _what_?" demanded Hermione, finally deciding to go for the jumper. She grabbed it out of the bureau and attempted to stuff it back in, only to be thwarted in her efforts. "Ginny, you know how cold it gets at the Burrow! I'll need that jumper!"

"You know what I'm talking about," continued Ginny cryptically. She found the white cashmere pullover jumper that Hermione had gotten from her parents . . . her _adoptive _parents . . . the Christmas before. "Now, _this_ we keep."

"Ginny," hissed Hermione, clutching the cable-knit jumper to her chest, "if you don't tell me what's going on, someone – probably you – is going to get cursed into oblivion." She bared her teeth menacingly.

"Hermione," laughed Ginny, finally looking at her. She saw Hermione's bared teeth, frowning for a moment, and then her mouth twisted in horror and shock. "Oh my god! They didn't tell you! I'm going to kill them!"

"Who tell me what?" asked Hermione, the anger streaming out of her voice. She stopped baring her teeth, and set the jumper down on the bed. "Ginny, what's going on?"

"Oliver's coming for Christmas!" explained Ginny. "Ron was supposed to tell you, at least according to Mum! And after that capital 'M' Moment the two of you had in Possets, I thought you'd appreciate the help with choosing what to wear! You must've thought I'd gone spare!"

"That did cross my mind at one point, yes," said Hermione, faintly, sinking into her bed. "Christmas?" She blinked. "Oliver?" There was a throbbing sensation beginning over her left eyebrow, prophesying a major headache. "Burrow?" She hadn't thought about him in months – or at least, tried to; there were times at meals when she glance at the Head table and see him looking in her general direction. "Oh, god." Their eyes had always met for a moment before skidding off in other directions.

"So you do fancy him!" exclaimed Ginny happily, pulling Hermione out of her thoughts, and the migraine out of its cave. "I was almost certain!"

"What?"

"Oliver!" said Ginny, grinning. "You fancy him! That look on your face just sealed the deal! Oh, that's wonderful, because I think that he fancies you." She nodded sagely, and then noticed a paid of tweed slacks. "How do these look on you?"

"Fine," replied Hermione. "And what on Earth do you mean, me fancying him? I don't fancy Oliver."

"Of course," giggled Ginny. "And I'm shagging Malfoy."

"Who are you shagging?" demanded someone in the doorway. The girls turned to see Harry and Ron, scowling, standing in the doorway.

"I'm not shagging anyone," snapped Ginny, primly. "And even if I was," she added with a devilish grin, "it wouldn't be any of your business."

"How did you two get in here?" asked Hermione.

"Ferret," they replied easily.

"Why didn't you tell me about Oliver coming to the Burrow for Christmas break?" she demanded, her gaze hardening. The boys shifted from one foot to the other, mumbling and turning pink.

"Well, that was our surprise," muttered Harry, rubbing the back of his neck. "Surprise."

* * *

AHHHHHH!

I've updated!

REJOICE!


	20. THE LEAKY CAULDRON

Disclaimer: BE KIND! I never said I owned HP! Please don't kill me! MERCY!

Author's Note: OMG! This is a MAJOR milestone people! It's my twentieth chapter! The big 2-0! By my next chapter, little ickle-TOPC-ikins will be able to drink!

Right. Please ignore me. My friend and I have this thing going to see who can watch all of the movies on the American Film Institute's 100 Top Films list first, and I've had almost no sleep. Twenty-nine down, seventy-one to go.

The **REAL **Author's note: Okay, to reward you guys for being sooooo patient about me being totally out of it – vacation, summer job, that sort of stuff – I am giving you FLUFF. And not just fluff . . .

You'll see.

And, I have to tell you that TOPC is nearing the home stretch. I predict five or six more chapters – which I know seems like a lot, but it's so sad! sobs

Anyway, please read and review. Especially that whole 'review' part. That's important.

The **Second Real **Author's Note: Thank you all SOO much for all the amazing reviews. I love you guys! You're all absolutely fantastic and patient what with me and my consistent injuries – I've sprained my ankle now, but fortunately that doesn't affect my ability to type (I'm one of the strange few who type with their hands instead of their toes)– and I wanted to thank you. Hang in there!

What the hell . . . the **Third Real **Author's Note: Okay, this is a long chapter (to make up for the time it took to write it), and hell . . . just skip to the ending if you want something to cheer you up. Don't forget to review though!

Chapter Twenty: The Leaky Cauldron

* * *

The next morning, Hermione was still seething as she bundled herself for the cold trip to the Burrow. "Prat," she muttered furiously, stuffing her fingers into her gloves. "Why is he going to the Weasley's for Christmas?" She wiggled her left hand experimentally and discovered that two of her fingers were stuck together. Groaning, she tried again. "Doesn't the man have his own _family_?" she asked air.

Unsurprisingly, the air did not deign to respond.

The mirror, however, helpfully asked, "Who, dearie?"

"Nothing," replied Hermione, a little frustrated. She ran a fuzzed hand through her furiously curling hair. She had thought that the gentle waves from the beginning of the summer would last, but they reverted to hopeless curls that were, luckily, more curl and less frizz than they had been previously.

Looking around for a final time so as to be sure that she had forgotten nothing, Hermione spied a glint of silver in the open drawer of her bedside table. Frowning, she pulled the drawer open all the way to reveal the Celtic amulet she had received along with her letter in the beginning of the summer. She had taken it off the night of the furious kiss in the library and stuffed it in there.

Hermione carefully hooked the delicate chain around her neck, and crossed in front of her bed to peek into the mirror. She pulled aside the collar of her skirt, and twisted a little so the light from the French windows slid off the silver.

"Looks very nice," commented the mirror. Hermione gave it a weak smile, and turned away too finish her final look around the room.

_What have I forgotten?_

The nagging feeling remained with her as she positioned the corduroy bag across her body, and grabbed the tan suitcase off the bed. She wiggled her nose as she tried to remember, and when she still drew a blank, she pulled the fuzzy white hat over her crazy hair, and wrapped the threadbare striped scarf around her neck.

All the bulk may have seemed useless for the ten minute commute to the Hogsmeade train station, but the weather outside Hogwarts was brutal – the snow was still coming down in flakes the size of snitches, and Hermione had no doubt that her legs would be soaking to the knees by the time she arrived at the Hogwarts Express.

Her confused rambling about forgetting something meant that she was running a little late, and Hermione decided to run the distance to the Entrance Hall, where she was meeting Harry, Ron and Ginny.

The corduroy bag banged against her hip as she ran down the staircase and out the portrait, her tan suitcase bobbing behind. As she rounded the corner, Hermione was suddenly struck by an epiphany.

_The day before, Ginny had said that Malfoy had let her into the Head dormitories on his way out . . . but when Harry and Ron had come in, they had also said that Malfoy had let them in. There was no way that Malfoy could have gone out somewhere and come back in the ten minutes between when Ginny appeared and the boys had. _

_Which meant someone was lying . . . _

Hermione almost stopped dead in the middle of the hallway, but she had reached the Entrance Hall, and Harry, Ron and Ginny were waving from their position by the large doors. Biting her lip, Hermione stowed away her thoughts for a later time, and approached her friends.

* * *

Oliver Wood was having a nervous breakdown.

It was hardly an intentional breakdown of any kind – it wasn't as if he had sat himself down and said 'Self, have a nervous breakdown over what to get the girl you love for Christmas even though she doesn't know you love her and probably will be confused by you giving her something anyway.'

Because what kind of person does that?

As he sat in his desecrated rooms – clothes thrown all over, a few empty Firewhiskey bottles, class schedules, that sort of thing – he had a semi-nervous-breakdown over the Christmas break that was rapidly approaching.

Originally, he was going to spend Christmas break with his sister and his parents at his grandparents' home in Edinburgh. But then his parents decided to go underground, and his sister was delegated to a cousins' house. Molly Weasley extended the invitation, and he couldn't deny that Hermione had a little bit to do with it . . .

But now as he stared into the greenish embers of the dying fire in the grate, his nervous breakdown began to melt away as he remembered the tentative brush of her fingers along his forearm as she brought her arms up to wrap around his neck in that maddening occurrence in the library months before.

Goddammit, he was completely hopeless.

And this sense of hopelessness forced him to keep himself out of her way. Only once had he resorted to actually turning around and leaving when he saw her coming, and he had winced as the hurt expression crossed her face for a split second. After that, he tried his best not to be caught alone with her, worried that he might not be able to control himself if the only thing standing between them was thin air.

The desperate need to see her, to talk to her, to hear her laugh had him blindly stumbling to the owlrey the week before, sending the letter to Molly Weasley that thanked her for inviting him, and saying that he would love to visit.

And because Oliver was so preoccupied with falling in love with Hermione, he completely forgot about the mysterious DADA teacher, Vallory Every.

Which had, of course, been her original intention.

* * *

Once they had settled their things at the Burrow – strangely, there had been no sight of the much-disputed flying instructor – the Trio removed themselves to the living room. Certain they were alone, they pulled out Hermione's written copy of the Sorting Song.

After the incident with the horcrux and Hufflepuff's heir, they hadn't been able to translate a single line from the song. Sighing, Hermione spread out her neat copy, along with the list of possible horcruxes.

The first read:

_Hogwarts School has many a hall_

_They welcome students one and all_

_Lessons learned and awe inspired_

_Great events have here transpired._

_Me the hat hath listened long_

_And transformed my message into song_

_Bespoken with haste my verses are_

_But their words heard close and far._

_Founders from past and present speak_

_Their warnings of havoc soon to wreak_

_Are spelled through me to students here_

_So for these moments give me your ear._

_Kind Hufflepuff never knew . . . . . . . . . _Helga Hufflepuff never knew

_Of the grace her house hath grew . . . . . _That her heir would return to Hogwarts

_In it lurks the power unknown . . . . . . . . _At that time the final horcrux would be revealed

_Come forth bearer and power shone . . . _Hufflepuff's cup would be reached by the heir

_In Gryffindor bravery rises_

_A new daughter found within false disguises_

_The sword will come to those found. . . . _The sword of Gryffindor (?)

_Worthy and with knowledge sound._

_Ravenclaw possesses _

_In her house a thousand guesses_

_And for those answers there must be_

_A question to be asked of thee._

_Cunning Slytherin has burrowed deep_

_In another house a spy that'll reap_

_Glory and blood that follows her so_

_As she ravages all goodness will grow._

_But ages ago these magical beings_

_Vested much in the power of seeings_

_So in a false message do seek lies_

_It is lost beneath the perilous ties_

_That must bind the separate _

_And appease the desperate._

The second read:

_1. Diary – destroyed _

_2. Gaunt ring – destroyed _

_3. Hufflepuff's cup – destroyed _

_4. Slytherin's Locket _

_5. Something of Ravenclaw _

_6. Something of Gryffindor_

_7. In Voldemort_

"Well," declared Ron, after scanning the Sorting Song, "I s'pose the beginning part is just plain useless."

Hermione rolled her eyes and replied, "Ron, none of this is _useless_. Why would the song put it in if it was useless, as you so put it?" She stabbed the paper with her inkless quill. "Please, can we concentrate?"

Harry grimaced weakly and pointed to _In Gryffindor bravery rises / A new daughter found within false disguises_. "That means you, doesn't it?" Hermione nodded, and scribbled Harry's point down quickly.

Ron scanned the piece of parchment and then, in a burst of clarity so completely unlike him that it momentarily stunned Hermione, said, "That bit" – and he gestured to _Cunning Slytherin has burrowed deep / In another house a spy that'll reap / Glory and blood that follows her so / As she ravages all goodness will grow. _–"The spy in the Order – does that mean her? A woman! But there aren't any female Slytherin students in the Order . . ."

Hermione didn't respond for a moment. Harry, however, said, "Ron – that's bloody brilliant!" Hermione, eyes widening in comprehension, began her scribbling again.

"She must be under a Slytherin's control – Imperious perhaps? By 'glory and blood', he must mean the dead members of the Order that she betrayed." Hermione looked up, shocked.

"A student, a female student, in the Order?" She frowned. "But Ginny and I are the only female students in the Order." She saw Harry freeze, but Ron shook his head.

"Actually, Luna is one too. And most of the seventh years that were in the DA that have parents in the Order have joined."

"So now we have no way of narrowing it down?" demanded Hermione, and she ran her fingers through her curly mass of hair furiously.

An hour later found them still at an impasse. Hermione's transcription of the Sorting Song was now:

_Hogwarts School has many a hall_

_They welcome students one and all_

_Lessons learned and awe inspired_

_Great events have here transpired._

_Me the hat hath listened long_

_And transformed my message into song_

_Bespoken with haste my verses are_

_But their words heard close and far._

_Founders from past and present speak_

_Their warnings of havoc soon to wreak_

_Are spelled through me to students here_

_So for these moments give me your ear._

_Kind Hufflepuff never knew . . . . . . . . . . _Helga Hufflepuff never knew

_Of the grace her house hath grew . . . . . _That her heir would return to Hogwarts

_In it lurks the power unknown . . . . . . . . _At that time the final horcrux would be revealed

_Come forth bearer and power shone . . . _Hufflepuff's cup would be reached by the heir

_In Gryffindor bravery rises . . . . . . . . . . _Gryffindors have found a new hero

_A new daughter found within false disguises . . . _Another Gryffindor that had been hid

_The sword will come to those found . . . . _The sword of Gryffindor(?)

_Worthy and with knowledge sound._

_Ravenclaw possesses _

_In her house a thousand guesses_

_And for those answers there must be_

_A question to be asked of thee._

_Cunning Slytherin has burrowed deep . . . _Slytherins are controlling

_In another house a spy that'll reap. . . . . . _A spy in another house that's getting info.

_Glory and blood that follows her so. . . . . _The information she passes on kills people

_As she ravages all goodness will grow. . . _She destroys the Orders intentions

_But ages ago these magical beings_

_Vested much in the power of seeings_

_So in a false message do seek lies_

_It is lost beneath the perilous ties_

_That must bind the separate _

_And appease the desperate._

Hermione sighed, and buried her aching eyes in her ink-stained palms. "We're going no where with this." Another sigh had her dropping her head backwards onto the seat of the settee she was resting against.

"Why don't we call it for the day?" suggested Ron. "You mentioned wanting to see your parents this afternoon."

"Ron and I'll go to Diagon Alley while you visit, and then we can meet up again at the Leaky Cauldron," suggested Harry. "Around four? That gives you three hours." Hermione rubbed here eyes harshly, and nodded.

* * *

The Grangers lived in a London suburb, their charming house nestled between two ones of larger volume and greater lawn space. The white house sprawled nicely, the steps up to the raised porch flanked by twin hydrangeas. As Hermione trudged up to aforementioned steps – it wouldn't do for her to appear suddenly at the door, seeing as the slow-moving neighborhood prompted nosy neighbors – she ran her glove hand on the glossy railing.

Hermione hadn't talked to her parents since the day she left for the Burrow after learning her new identity, and although she still loved her adoptive parents, there was a part of her that resented them for making her a Granger instead of letting her beginning her life as the Potter she was.

She'd sent them a curt letter that said she'd reached Hogwarts fine, but they'd never replied. Of course, Harry and Ron thought that she was chattering to them as happily as she had the years before.

Hermione sighed, dropping her hand from the railing. She was hoping to bridge the gap that she had built, and hopefully have a cuppa of her mother's cure-all peppermint tea. And – though she wasn't going to actually _tell_ them this – she needed a few of her books for the horcrux research she, Harry and Ron had planned for later in the break.

Reaching the front door, Hermione knocked on the door. Her house keys had been what she'd forgotten back in the Head rooms at Hogwarts, and she still had no idea where she'd left them. Maybe she'd Transfigure a new set.

After a few moments of nothing happening, she knocked, louder and said, "Mum? Dad?" Ten seconds later, the door opened to a smiling Mrs. Granger, patting dusty fingers on her apron. Obviously she'd been cooking – healthy, fat-free holiday cookies, probably oatmeal and the such – and Hermione smiled.

"Can I help you?" inquired Mrs. Granger politely in the voice she always used with strangers and door-to-door salesmen. Hermione frowned.

"Mum?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. "What's up?"

"I beg your pardon," replied Mrs. Granger with a chilly smile. "You must have the wrong house." She began to shut the door but Hermione slammed her palm against it to stop the motion. Mrs. Granger's eyes widened marginally.

"Mum? Look, I know you've read the Potter's letter, and I'm not your blood daughter, but can we talk about this?" Mrs. Granger furrowed her brow, and Hermione could see her freeze the motion of dusting her hands.

"I'm sorry, dear," she said with a great deal of sympathy, "But I've never seen you before in my life. My husband and I never had any children." She added, helpfully, "Who are you looking for?"

Hermione could feel something crawling under her skin as the horrible realization came over her. Her jaw trembled as she peeled her hand from the door, clutching it to her chest. "N-never," she managed, her breath gasping, "never mind."

She spun around on her heel and dashed down the steps, still holding her right hand to her chest, the sensation under her skin clawing its way up her body to her eyes, where burning tears began to well.

"Who was that?" inquired Mr. Granger from the living room as he read his newspaper. Mrs. Granger followed the stumbling process of the strange girl across their yard before closing the door.

"I don't know," she replied. "She looked strangely familiar. Seemed to think I was her mum."

"Teenagers these days," huffed Mr. Granger, turning to the next page in his paper. "Take that girl who cleaned our attic last year. Left all her things here. Had to send someone else to get them – remember _him_? Dotty, with that awful suit, always smiling; Dumbly-something."

"I remember _that_," mused Mrs. Granger. "Strange. Very polite, but strange." She moved her gaze to the mantle over the fireplace, which was graced with a single picture – her wedding photo – and sprinkled with Christmas decorations.

The once tumultuous assemblage of photos of family vacations, with a grinning, bushy-haired girl at front stage, had disappeared into the abyss of things that the Grangers would never know existed.

* * *

Hermione turned the corner from her parent's house, tears trembling from the bottom of her chin, the salty streaks leaving discolorations on her rosy cheeks. Her lips were slightly parted as she huffed for breath, almost unable to comprehend what she had just seen.

Her parents . . . _had forgotten her_.

She regretted, so harshly that it made her cry harder, her former uncharitable thoughts about the couple that had raised her. How could she resent them? They had loved her and cared for her even though she wasn't their daughter.

And now they didn't even know who she was.

Hermione, trembling, found a secluded corner and Apparated to the Leaky Cauldron. Harry and Ron wouldn't been there for another two and a half hours, and Hermione, ignoring the few customers inside, found her way to a table in a deserted table and dropped her head into her hands, and began to silently sob.

The tears splashed onto the grimy table, creating a little puddle of grief and mud that Hermione didn't notice. She also didn't notice Oliver Wood until he was offering her a handkerchief he had just pulled out of the tip of his wand.

She accepted it thankfully, wiping away at her eyes to no avail.

"What's makin' you cry like that?" asked Oliver, sitting in an empty chair next to her, his accent soft and comforting.

Hermione had yet to prepare a convincing lie – she needed one for Mrs. Weasley, she knew – and her head ached from her crying; thus, she had a completely justifiable momentary brain lapse and told him the truth.

Repeating the horrifying experience had her crying again, turning his handkerchief into a soggy mess that she dropped onto the table top. As she finished, she blew out a shaky sigh and rubbed the tears from her eyes, unable to meet Oliver's brown eyes that were drawn together in sympathy.

She moved her head so she could look at Tom, positioned at the counter, without getting a crick in her neck. She could feel the burn of embarrassment highlight her neck and face; why did she tell him what had happened?

A second later, she could feel warm, calloused fingers gently latch under her chin and turn her face to his. She swallowed the tears that clogged her throat, and met his eyes. He said, slowly, gently, as if not to frighten her away, "You didna do anything wrong."

Hermione didn't know how, but he had managed to find the very root of her fear. She felt that she had done something – pushed them away – that had made her easy to forget. That there must've been something that she'd done to make them happy to get rid of her.

"Thank you," she replied breathily, her voice husky from the tears. In place of reply, Oliver smiled. When he did so, the skin at the corner of his eyes crinkled slightly, and Hermione found herself staring, quite rudely, at his eyes.

_Chocolate eyes floating above her._

Her lips parted with a small 'ooh'.

She'd had her suspicions, of course, but she'd never really considered them.

And at that moment, Hermione stopped considering things and leaned forward to press her lips softly against his.

His fingers still hooked under her chin slid over her shoulders to the back of her neck, their rough pads deliciously scratching the delicate skin there. For a moment his hand stopped, waiting, and when she didn't move, he pressed her lips tighter to his own.

Hermione's brain fizzled, all functions ceasing except for her nerve endings. It seems that the billions of nerve cells that had once been position all over her body were centered in her lips, which were parting under his. She didn't even notice when her hands moved from the table to his shoulders, using his body to move herself even closer. She registered, for a millisecond, the soft, curling hair at the base of his head, before all her attention was once again focused on the scratch of his teeth on her sensitive lower lip.

It was Oliver.

Oliver was the one who had woken her up with a storybook kiss in the hospital; who had accosted her in the library . . . and he was the one who had given her the first, terrifying, broom flight of her life, and gotten her hypothermia, and who was currently kissing her as if there nothing else in the world he'd rather be doing.

Hermione smiled into his lips. She was falling rather hard for Oliver Wood.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I've done it! I've finally revealed to Hermione who her prince is! Unfortunately, I'm telling you now that this doesn't mean smooth sailing here on out – although, next chapter I'll give you guys a totally _hot_ protective!Oliver.

Meanwhile . . . reviews would be nice. Reviews would be TOTALLY nice. Because I know how much all of you love being nice to me . . .


	21. CHRISTMAS EVE

Disclaimer: Please don't sue! It'd be useless anyway, 'cause all you'd get out of me would be a half-eaten box of Cheese-Its and my cat. He bites.

**Author's Note: **Hi ya'll! Anyway, my computer is (once again) being strange. For some reason, my wireless access works everywhere _except_ at home. I really have no idea when it's going to be fixed, so bear with me.

Second **Author's Note**: My foot's gotten better, if anyone cares. Now I'll just have to move onto the next injury . . .

Third **Author's Note **(written a week later): Here it is! I now have a spider bite the size of a small frying pan on the back of my thigh, making it almost impossible to sit. I hope you're glad that I'm typing this standing up, because my calves are getting really tired . . .

**_SHOUT OUT TO KOLE17_**, who was my 300th reviewer! YAY! And for your trouble? A life-size OLIVER GUMMY! Please enjoy responsibly.

Chapter Twenty-One: Christmas Eve

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_Quite a few months earlier_

Martha Ollivander had always known that her father was a bit dodgy.

However, the morning she decided to drop in on her dodgy father, beg off a spot of tea and tell him about the rather fantastic discovery she had made about the wand in his shop window, she found his shop quite deserted.

Confused, Martha dusted off a red velvet chair in the back room and put on the kettle. Four hours later, as she drifted off, sipping Earl Grey and nonchalantly tapping her wand against the droopy coffee table, he still hadn't arrived.

Nor was he there at eight o'clock that evening, when a series of explosions at Weasley Wizard Wheezes across the way woke her with a start.

Mind you, Martha had always expected for her father to do something like this (it was so completely like him) one day. When she was a child, he'd wander out into Diagon Alley, citing a new gift for her as an explanation for his absence, and not return until midnight.

Clucking her tongue, Martha owled in her office to explain that she had caught a rather nasty cough, and wouldn't be in the next day, and then set about dusting off the furniture. It wasn't until she was all through with the back room and halfway across the dimly lit reception area when it hit her that her father must've been gone longer than she'd originally presumed. A new layer of dust had settled over the usual one, and there were no signs of her father's distinctive footprints.

Martha 'hmph'ed, and then with a swipe of her wand, had the broom sweep across the length of the room, raising the grime in a hurricane of allergies and dust bunnies. Coughing until her eyes watered, Martha moved across, narrowly avoiding the furiously working broom, until she was positioned at the shop window. There, on a royal blue pillow trimmed with bronze piping (faded to purple now, the piping turned dull by age), was a wand.

Martha could hear her father's voice in her head. _"Spruce, pliable, 10 1/3 inches, with a tail feather from a jobberknoll. Fantastic for spellwork, you know. All kinds: adds a bit of a sting to hexes, and charms just come out better."_

She knew that he'd go spare if he had been there that morning when she'd arrived, and she could have told him what she had just discovered the Tuesday before. Fingertips tingling, Martha reached out and ran a fingertip down the length of the wand. Her own memories rose back up to meet her: her preadolescent voice, wavering, asking, _"Dad, where'd that wand in the window come from?"_

"_It's been in this family for as long as I can remember, Marty." _

"_Goodness, how long is that?"_

"_Quite a long time."_

"_Would Gramp know where it came from?"_

"_I doubt it."_

Of course, she'd managed to trump both of them. She remembered the betrayed look in her father's eye as she told him she'd accepted a position in the Department of Mysteries at the Ministy. He'd expected her to go into wand-selling, like him, and her grandfather before that, and all the way, back and back and back through endless generations.

Now, she'd hoped to get rid of the glint of disappointment.

With a cry, Martha snatched her finger back from the wand. The bloody think had snapped at her! Her! A wand! She rubbed a thumb across the peaked bit of skin, mumbling about ancient artifacts, before turning on her heel and once again dodging the broom, moved towards the back room to get her bag and leave. Her father be damned; man couldn't just up and leave and expect her to take care of the place.

As she gathered up her bag and dumped the tea things in the sink, still muttering, Martha forgot about the broom she'd left in the front room. She left through the back door, slamming it theatrically behind her, swiping her thumb across the broken skin of her fingertip.

The over-zealous broom, once it had finished its chore, leapt across the room to settle in the corner by the window where it usually rested. Martha, however, had moved the pillow ever so slightly that it was in the broom's way. Noiselessly, the broom magically shoved itself into its home, the wand wavering for a second before tumbling off, hitting the floor, and rolling across so it was hidden under the lip of the counter.

There it stayed, gathering even more dust, waiting for a member of the Ollivander family to return and put it back on its cushion in the window.

But the next person to find it wasn't an Ollivander.

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_Now back to present time . . ._

"_Luna_!"

Ginny Weasley was incredifabulously, outstandingishly, delirifantastically happy – enough so that in her mind she was using words that didn't really exist – with an appearance of a member of the female race that could share her misery that she almost throttled Luna Lovegood in her attempts to welcome her into the Weasley family home.

Ginny's misery being that she was forced to endure Harry's moody glances that he shot her whenever he thought she wasn't looking (generally this was when she was). Hermione, of course, wouldn't understand, it being her best friend – BROTHER – that was responsible for her misery.

Luna Lovegood, however, felt the exact same way about Ginny sharing _her_ misery.

After the death of her mother, Luna and her father had often spent their solitary Christmas Eves at home, guarding the tree against Gimpy-winnles and testing the week-old eggnog for the miniscule eggs of the Bi-tailed Minkruk. This Christmas, however, Mrs. Weasley had happily invited the pair to spent Christmas Eve and Christmas Day itself at the Burrow – because while Mrs. Weasley was a loving mother, and sometime oblivious to the exploits of her children, she wasn't blind.

Luna was the key to a very merry Christmas for _someone_ in the Weasley family.

"Thank god you're here!" exclaimed Ginny, grasping the hand of her pale friend and dragging her up the rickety staircase to her bedroom.

Mr. Lovegood was left in the company of Mr. Weasley, who immediately offered to show the tall, gangly man his collection of Muggle batteries. The two merrily set off for the shed, talking excitedly.

"The boys are planning something," warned Ginny as she tugged Luna up the staircase at an accelerated pace. "I wouldn't touch anything after they have tonight at dinner." Luna, however, was examining the wooden handrails with a sort of detached exactingness, which made her seem a bit cross-eyed.

"Did you know," she asked Ginny in her strange, whispery voice, "that Crinkle-haired Unocoles make their nests in handrails made of ash?" She finished brightly, and Ginny raised a single, eloquent eyebrow before yanking the blonde inside her bedroom and slamming the door shut.

"I want you to watch Hermione for me," declared the youngest Weasley as she settled onto her bed. "She's been acting a bit off lately, I think. But I want a second opinion." Luna murmured her assent, and she gazed around the room for a few seconds before asking in her blunt way:

"What's wrong?"

Ginny's neck crackled as she snapped her head upwards to look at Loony Lovegood, who was watching her with slightly narrowed eyes.

"Wrong?" she asked, aiming for nonchalance, but falling a few feet short when she attempted to lean backwards and rest her elbows, but misjudged the distance and flipped backwards off the bed.

"Yes, wrong," replied Luna as she stood up and leaned across to help her up. "We haven't always been fantastic friends, Ginevra." Luna's usually exasperating way of using her full name for once didn't serve to exasperate. "Why did you invite my father and I?"

"Well, you live in the village down the way," began Ginny lamely, before backtracking and starting over. "Alright – it's Harry. He's driving me absolutely spare! All he does is stare moodily! He's the one who broke up with me!" Ginny let out a grogh (as the twins had christened her traditional half-groan-half-sigh noise) and flopped down on the floor. Luna joined her a moment later in a wobbly sitting motion.

"He said that Voldemort could use me against him – all his traditional The-Boy-Who-Lived-To-Make-His-Own-Life-More-Miserable rot – and then turned and walked away!" wailed Ginny, banging her head against the wall. It shuddered for a moment before calming, but Ginny raged onward.

"If he's so bloody selfless why does he always look at me like some sort of dejected, kicked puppy?"

"Maybe he regrets it," suggested Luna. She was looking at Ginny as if looking _through_ her, and this was throwing the redhead off her stride a bit. "Harry's never really thought these sort of things through, you know."

"Don't I know it," declared Ginny unhappily.

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Hermione, who really, really _was_ trying not to be conspicuous, had ended up being the exact opposite. There were times where at dinner, she'd look up to Oliver looking across the table at her, and she'd turn a rather becoming shade of pink, and bury her gaze back into her mashed potatoes. And others, where she'd run into him on the stairs with the twins, and once again the blush would spread up her neck and across her face as she attempted to get by.

And whenever they'd manage to maneuver a moment alone together – which required quite a lot of maneuvering – they would awkwardly sit (or stand) in silence for a few milliseconds before Hermione jumped him like some sort of flobberworm.

Being analytical, there were two reasons that Hermione could find that explained why she was so reticent about speaking to Oliver.

1) She didn't quite know how to start a conversation with a man she had kissed more times than she had talked to.

And then there was the more terribly obvious reason:

2) She didn't quite know how to start a conversation with a man she had discovered bespelled attempting to steal a horcrux. Because, you see, if she started this conversation with him, she'd have to explain what a horcrux was.

Thus, Hermione was stuck in something vaguely resembling the minuscule hole between a rock and a hard space. No matter how much she analyzed, and made lists and discussed possible outcomes with herself, she couldn't discover how to tell Oliver _anything_.

To add to her dilemma, Hermione was experiencing an immense amount of guilt. She was fantastically guilty that Oliver didn't know about the horcrux incident; that her brother and Ron didn't know about Oliver; that she wasn't actually as unhappy about her parents forgetting her as a proper daughter should have been; that she wasn't paying enough attention to Ginny, who was at this point her only ally; and most horrifying of all . . . that she had generally neglected her NEWT revision.

So Christmas Eve afternoon, as Ginny carted Luna upstairs, Harry, Ron and the twins sequestered themselves in the twins' room (doing something that Mrs. Weasley probably would not approve of if she knew of it) and the adults vanished, mumbling respectively about batteries and snow peas spells, Hermione decided to confront her unconquerable situation.

Grasping Oliver around the wrist, she pulled the burly man behind her into the Weasley family coat closet. She closed the door, locked it, and lighted her wand tip. "We need to—" she began, but was cut off as Oliver's lips descended onto hers, and his hand snaked itself around her waist.

"Mmph," she objected, not really objecting, and found herself wrapping her arms around his neck in a fashion that was so completely un-Hermione-like that she was surprised she even considered it.

But as Oliver steadily backed her up until her shoulder-blades were pressed against the peeling paint of the coat closet, Hermione heard the rustling of something burrowing its way through the walls, and she was able to distance herself from the mind-blowing experience of being very expertly kissed by Oliver Wood.

She unwound her arms, planted both palms on his cheeks and pushed his head gently backwards. "We," she declared quickly before he got it in his mind to kiss her again, "have to talk."

Oliver turned very pale, although it was hard for Hermione to be certain in the dull lighting that the tip of her wand provided.

"Not that sort of talking," she corrected quickly. "The kind of what-are-we-doing sort of talking." Hermione, having never done this before, was not quite certain to proceed.

However, one could not be roommates with Lavender Brown and the daughter of a secret romance-novel addict and not know at least a _little_ bit about how to go about asking the proper questions.

"What do you mean?" asked Oliver, resting his forehead against hers – which considering the six inches difference in their height, was no mean feat – so the light exploded under his chin.

"Well . . . Hogwarts is a bit strict about student-teacher relationships," stuttered Hermione, who was for the first time in her life on unequal footing. "We are . . . having a relationship aren't we?"

"Of course," replied Oliver, sounding a bit exasperated. "And would you mind keeping it a secret for the rest of the term?"

Well . . . yes, she would.

"Of course not," lied Hermione brilliantly. "Now that I've established that we are, in fact, having a relationship . . . I think that I should get to know more about you than that you're obsessed with quidditch –" here she almost mentioned his sister, but instead glossed over that "—and snog quite brilliantly."

"Thank you," grinned Oliver, "for the bit about my snogging." Hermione immediately began to blush, and she could feel the bits of her hair begin to tingle, even though she knew that scientifically, the bits of her hair couldn't feel anything at all, they not having nerve endings and all that rot.

_Good lord . . . must remember to put in brain next time I leave Ginny's room. Probably isn't good to be wandering about without one. _

There was a bit of silence before Oliver ventured, "Could we possibly to this getting-to-know-each-other bit upstairs? And not in a coat closet possibly infested with Doxy eggs?"

With a shriek (and the glaring memory of the last time she had spent time in the company of Doxies), Hermione threw herself out of the closet, and because Oliver's arms were wrapped around her, they tumbled out onto the floor, limbs askew and wrapped around one another.

"Bloody hell," squeezed out Oliver with the last bit of breath that hadn't been knocked out of his lungs. He couldn't help realizing that this position – Hermione being tossed over the upper half of his body, her hair spreading a curtain of sorts between their faces and the rest of the hallway – was exceedingly fortunate. Obviously one of the gods was smiling upon him.

"Lunch is ready!"

Mrs. Weasley's voice echoing from the kitchen just around the corner seemed to knock some sense back into Hermione, because she quickly detangled herself from him and stood, brushing down her every which-way hair, and dusting off the back of her pants.

"We'll continued this later," she said before fleeing, romance-novel-esque, into the kitchen. Oliver could hear her bright voice inquiring Mrs. Weasley what exactly was for lunch, as he still lay in a daze of sorts on the corridor floor.

"Oliver? What the devil are you doing?" Fred peeked around the corner to see his good friend sprawled on the floor.

"You dunna want to know," sighed Oliver.

"Damn straight," plowed on George, who had joined his twin.

"Because have we got quite the thing –"

"For you to see –"

"Been working on it all afternoon –"

"Pure stroke of genius –"

"Just something to light up the holidays –"

"Put a bit of spring in everyone's step –"

"That sorta thing."

Oliver groaned and rubbed his forehead. "Now I'm the one who doesn't want to know anything."

"Come know mate," cried George.

"You'll love it!" exclaimed Fred. Seeing that they we about to dissemble into yet another one of their confusing explanations where they finished each other's sentences, Oliver pulled himself to his feet, pushing the closet door closed.

"It'll certainly put Hermione on her toes," added George as Oliver joined them at their corner.

"What," demanded Oliver in what he assumed to be a slow, measured voice, "does that mean?"

"Nothing," winked Fred. George, while seeming nonchalant, was actually a bit scared about the dangerous glint that was growing in the eye of his Scottish mate. Oliver, however, wasn't going to be put off.

"Don't you dare do anything to her," he all but hissed.

"Whoa, old boy," said George, patting him on the back. "What's made you so protective of our young Miss Potter now?"

The truth was hardly the best route to take in this case.

"She just found out that her adoptive parents we bespelled to forget her. I hardly think that you pranking her is going to light up her Christmas," snapped Oliver, batting away George's hand.

"Spoilsport," pouted Fred.

"S'pose we can use Ginny," put in George complacently. "She's always been good for a bit of experimental science."

Sufficiently calmed by the thought that Hermione was now safe from whatever surely excruciatingly embarrassing fate Fred and George had planned for her, Oliver decided to avoid talking them out of performing it on their little sister, and simply noted that perhaps they should get some lunch before Ron devoured all of it for them.

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That night, the Trio, plus Ginny and Luna, gathered in the Weasley family living room. Ron and Harry were deep in a game of wizard's chess, while Luna and Ginny played Exploding Snap, and Hermione was reading a book on horcruxes she'd checked out of the Restricted Section before winter break.

It was, of course, spelled so the title appeared to be _Lacewing, Beetles and Burexes: Two-Part Poisons and How They Are Triggered_. Ron had mumbled something under his breath about the size of the book when Hermione had first entered with it, but she ignored him, as per usual.

Luna had just won her first game, and was celebrating by whirling her butterbeer-cork necklace around her index finger when Ginny excused herself into the kitchen. After a moment's pause, Harry did the same.

Ron remained silent for a millisecond before rising to his feet and making to creep after them. "Ron!" admonished Hermione in a lowered voice, putting down her book and carefully marking her place. "Don't you dare!"

"Shh!" hissed Ron, and made towards the kitchen.

With an exasperated sigh, Hermione rose off the couch and made after him, Luna swinging behind her as if there was nothing even vaguely covert about what they were doing.

Even before she reached Ron – who was crouched by the closed kitchen door, his ear to the crack between the frame and the door itself – Hermione could hear the angry murmurs of the two people inside.

"Harry! Why are you always going after me when you're the one who _broke up with me_! I can't stand your moody looks and those bloody stares!" Ginny sounded angry and frustrated, and Hermione could just barely make out the shuffling of her feet as she paced the linoleum floor.

Harry replied in a voice that was too quiet to hear; whatever it was, though, it made Ginny angry enough to smash something with a bang that reverberated through the walls.

It took seconds for Hermione to realize that the anguished scream that followed the crash was one of fear, not frustration.

She reached for the doorknob as something else exploded, the sound piercing the solid wood door and driving daggers into her ears. Her hand was moving slowly . . . too slowly. It felt as if her limbs were pushing through the molasses of noise the jargled from the kitchen. She jangled the doorknob for seeming minutes before realizing that it was locked, and thrusting her wand at it, tears pulsating through her eyes.

The door swung open to reveal the kitchen in shambles, cabinet doors swinging open just as the back door did, brushing in the lightly falling snow. The instep was littered with strands of long red hair, twisted on the dusting of white snow. The table was broken in half, splinters littering the floor.

Harry knelt in the middle of the chaos, his knees bleeding from the wooden shards embedded into his legs.

He looked up, eyes glazed as Hermione, Ron and Luna tumbled into the desecrated room. His voice was as small and weak as the legs that were folded under him.

"They took Ginny."

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Wait!

I know what you're thinking.

"_What is this crazy bh doing?"_

Don't worry! All will be well! There IS method to my madness!

And if it makes you feel any better, this chapter was the hardest one that I've had to write in a long time. Mostly because I feel SO AWFUL about how it ends.

Please review! You can even call me a crazy bitch if you want to (however I would prefer if you did not).


	22. RAVENCLAW'S WAND

Disclaimer: Hmm . . . am unable to think of anything funny, seeing as how 'No Sleep 2nite' (Molly McQueen) is blasting in my left ear. So I'll go for short and sweet: me no ownie.

**Author's Note**: Hi everybody! I'm bad and I'm back!

Just kidding.

Actually, I'm back with the sad information that I'm going to have to start killing people off. I know! I know! It's evil of me . . . but I'm a very violent person, and to tell you the truth, certain people are starting to really annoy me. And they're just gonna have to go.

Chapter Twenty-Two: Ravenclaw's Wand

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"_They took Ginny."_

Hermione's breath froze in her chest. It felt like her rib cage was slowly retracting around her heart and lungs when she gasped out, "Harry, who took Ginny?" It was an unnecessary question; they all knew the answer, but she needed to say something; to have the illusion that something was being done.

Her brother looked like a child as he raised his head, his eyes caged by unruly black hair and crinkled at the corner from regrets. "The Death Eaters."

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Christmas morning over the fields surrounding the Weasley family home had dawned grey and cloudy, streaks of sunlit red dashing through the storm clouds. The snowfall from the previous night had ended slowly, drifting off until the fields were blanketed in crackling white that burned the eyes to look at.

Inside the Burrow, Christmas presents lay unopened as Aurors moved about, casting trace spells and questioning the Trio and Luna with endless, stupid questions until Mrs. Weasley stepped in, tears in her eyes, and demanded that they leave the children alone.

When the Aurors acquiesced, the freed teenagers fled upstairs to Ginny and Hermione's room. Hermione sat on her bed, barely used as of late, staring into space, a threadbare pillow clutched to her chest. Harry stormed to a fro, his eyes dark with self-hatred, spitting sparks every time he turned.

Ron was sitting on the floor by the doorway, Arthur the Pygmy Puff clutching in his cupped hands. He wasn't sobbing openly, but there were sparkling tear tracks down his cheeks as he gazed, unseeing, at the purple ball of fluff.

Luna was curled in a circle at the end of Hermione's bed, staring at Ginny's tussled, unmade one, remembering their conversation of the previous day.

There was silence, save for the shuffling of Harry's feet as he pushed himself, faster and faster, from one end of the room to the other.

With a savage cry he turned and buried his fist into the crumbling wall at the foot of Ginny's bed, splitting his flesh to the knuckles and leaving smears of blood over the white wallpaper.

He withdrew his fist and stared at it for a moment, flexing his fingers, wincing at the pain even as he looked at it as though unsure of what he had done.

None of them moved, made a noise, made to stop him from doing it again. The numbness from the cold of the snow had seeped into their bones and made them all but lifeless.

"Come here," said Hermione finally, listlessly moving the pillow aside and beckoning with her hand. Luna curled her body into an even smaller circle, and Harry settled between them so the three were facing Ron, who sat across the way. She took his hand in hers, and then settled it in her lap, taking her wand and with a whispered spell began to weave the skin back together. She inhaled for a moment before turning her wide hazel eyes onto her brother, and smiled sadly. "Harry, don't –"

"Don't what?" interrupted Harry bitterly. "_Blame myself?_" He laughed mirthlessly. "Too late, Hermione. You're too damn late."

"Harry James Potter!" she snapped, thrusting his still-mending hand back at him, jerking herself out of the self-imposed coma. "Don't you have any sense at all! Voldemort took Ginny so he'll have something, some_one_ to taunt you with! He couldn't kill me, and he couldn't throw you off with the Order deaths so he took Ginny, and by letting him succeed you're not only being incredibly pathetic, you're insulting both Ginny and her memory!" Her words slapped across his face.

"Her memory?" repeated Ron in an acidic little voice. "Sounds like you're already preparing a eulogy, Hermione." Stung, Hermione made to respond, but it was Luna silvery, albeit muffled, voice that cut past her.

"There's no point in arguing about this." The blonde shifted so her head was raised from its previous spot burrowed in her arms. "Shouldn't we be thinking of ways to be getting Ginny back and killing Voldemort?"

"Dammit!" exclaimed Harry. "She's right! We should be going after her!"

The four teenagers were unaware that Harry's agreement with Luna had morphed the Trio into a quartet; Hermione's instantaneous response distracted them. "Without having destroyed the six horcruxes? I think not!"

Harry and Ron simultaneously drew in a single breath, shooting looks of pure panic at Luna. Hermione slapped a hand across her mouth, horrified at what she had revealed. Luna, however, narrowed her eyebrows and said the four words that had probably never before emerged from her mouth: "There's no such thing.

And before Hermione or Harry could begin damage control, Ron insisted stubbornly, "Of course there are. Of all the bloody things to believe in, you can't believe in horcruxes? At least there are documented cases of them – as opposed to Crunkle-Morned Snortyaks, or whatever they are."

"My father," replied Luna as primly as she had ever been, sitting up, "did a study on them for _The Quibbler_ ten years ago. He proved that there's no possible way for a horcrux to be created because it always contradicts itself."

Hermione figured that Ron had already dug a grave for them – in addition, Harry was looking less and less suicidal as the moments went on – so she ventured slowly, "Luna, did your father research murder as a possible vessel for the soul to be transported?"

"Of course not," huffed Luna, sounding remarkably Hermione-like, but a moment later there was knowledge in her eyes. Looney, Luna Lovegood may have been . . . but she wasn't stupid. "Are you saying that Voldemort made six horcruxes? That he murdered all those people just to make _six_ horcruxes?"

"Well, no," replied Hermione, shifting in the bed uncomfortably. "He murdered all those people because he's depraved. He just used six of them to make his horcruxes. And then, of course, there's the seventh bit still within himself."

"And you've been going about destroying these?" asked Luna.

"All year," replied Hermione. "We've already gotten three of them. We need to destroy three more, and then Voldemort himself."

"Which three?" asked Luna, and then Hermione proceeded to explain all of it; Riddle's diary, Hufflepuff's Cup, Slytherin's Locket, the Gaunt Ring, the history of Tom Riddle, the two horcruxes they had yet to identify, but that they knew the two belonged to the two other House Founders; by the time she was finished, it was late afternoon, and the shuffling downstairs from the Aurors had lessened dramatically.

"You know," said Luna when Hermione had finished, "I have an idea. About the horcrux of Ravenclaw's."

"Really?" asked Hermione without much conviction. She was all but certain that Crumple-Horned Snortnacs were going to be involved.

"In the Sorting Song, there was a verse something like, _Ravenclaw possesses / __In her house a thousand guesses / And for those answers there must be / A question to be asked of thee._"

"Yeah," replied Hermione, perking up a little.

"Well, there's this legend within Ravenclaw that her wand would one day come back to Hogwarts in the possession of an absolutely brilliant student. In it, all the potential Ravenclaws are referred to as 'guesses', or sort of missed shots. According to the legend, the wandmaker has innate knowledge of who will be 'guesses', and asks them a specific question. No one has yet to answer correctly. I know, because he asked me. I got it wrong . . . but if anyone ever gets it correct, then they are meant for Ravenclaw's wand."

"So you're saying what exactly?" asked Ron, never the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree.

"That you think Ravenclaw's wand is a horcrux," breathed Hermione. "It's brilliant, of course. _Hogwarts, A History_ vaguely mentions the legend of Ravenclaw, and the potentials being referred to as guesses. I can't believe I forgot!"

"_I _can't believe she forgot," huffed Ron.

"What was the question, exactly?" asked Hermione excitedly, talking over Ron's subversive comment.

"'I am one but I am more, I am born in light but loss becomes me, Beware my touch, a kiss of death for all but one, Who seeks me out seek fierce victory. What am I?'"

"A horcrux," answered Hermione. "Of course! They're all but telling us that Ravenclaw's wand is one. How could we have missed all of this?" She sprang up from her bed and began to pace. "How could _Dumbledore _have missed this?"

"Well," pointed out Harry darkly, "How many wands does Ollivander have? Thousands?"

"Possibly millions," added Ron unhelpfully.

"There had to be a system," mused Hermione, pacing frantically. "Some way that if someone answered the riddle correctly, Ollivander would be able to get them the wand without sorting through all of his wands."

She bit her lip in frustration and paced faster. Suddenly, halfway across the room, she, Harry and Luna said at the exact same time, "_Window_."

"Huh?" Ron had missed the connection.

"Window!" exclaimed Hermione. "The wand in his window! Oh, honestly Ron, do try and keep up! The wand that Ollivander has in his shop window! That must be Ravenclaw's wand!"

"But if that's Ravenclaw's wand," pointed out Ron in yet another moment of stunning brilliance, "why didn't he give it over to Dumbledore, if he knew the answer to the riddle was 'horcrux'?"

Hermione harrumphed.

"Maybe Ollivander didn't _know _that the wand in the window was Ravenclaw's; it's been there for ages, hasn't it? Maybe he didn't even know what the answer to the riddle was. After all, some generation along the way would probably rig it if they knew the answer . . . so maybe Ollivander, along with his forefathers, just knew to ask the riddle. Their system was probably bespelled so if the right answer was spoken, the wand would be summoned."

"But everything still points to the wand in the window," continued Hermione happily. "The faded cushion – what do you want to bet that was royal blue once? And that piping? Bronze for sure! Ravenclaw colors!"

"So now how do we get it?" demanded Harry. "Because the sooner we do, the sooner we can get the next horcrux, and then we can get Ginny!"

"One step at a time," soothed Hermione. "We can Apparate now, remember? We'll go tonight, at midnight."

"Isn't Ollivander's shop closed up?" added Ron, yet again unhelpfully.

"If he was in a hurry to leave, I doubt he put up wards," pointed out Harry darkly. "We'll go in, Luna can say the correct answer to the riddle, we destroy it, and we get out before breakfast."

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Okay, I _know_ it's short, but due to my incredibly AWFUL schedule, I thought you would appreciate it if I at least got something out.

Review! Because I'm too exhausted to think of some witty reason why you should!


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